


The Mermaid's Tears

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Series: The Demon and the Bluebird [2]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, M/M, this isn't a slow-burn so much as a medium-burn, very VERY mild jpn spoilers, whoops a one-shot that turned into a chaptered fic lmfao......
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: “I’m as deformed a thing as you are. Everything about me – my heart, my body, my words – all of it is cursed.” Andersen’s smile stretched too wide. “Mermaid scales on my legs, to remind me of the torment I inflicted upon her. Burns on my arms, so I may always experience that girl’s final moments. And my form, yes, this body of mine will always be half a man’s. I will always be a child, for that’s what they wish. What sort of putrid, filthy human would be fool enough to accept a dedication from me?”---After learning about his involvement in Mt. Penglai, Andersen becomes dissatisfied with the form he was summoned into. Unexpectedly, Dantes offers to help by doing the unthinkable: making Andersen the muse of his own story. The catch? To do so requires them to dive deep into their troubled psyches...
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Edmond Dantès | Avenger
Series: The Demon and the Bluebird [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778374
Comments: 35
Kudos: 76





	1. a proposal

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot but oops! i guess it turned into a small chaptered fic!! anyway, this takes place sometime after [Beyond Love and Hate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314358), the previous installment in the series. you don't need to have read it, but you'll get a better idea of the character dynamics if u do.

A sigh was the only sign of her deep distress, for a mermaid cannot cry.

— “The Little Mermaid,” Hans Christian Andersen

The earthen aroma of coffee perfumed the near-empty study, heralding Dantes’ presence long before he slipped out of the shadows. Entering the authors’ den had grown into its own little ritual which he followed well. Knock once, and only once. Should no one answer, help yourself in. And never, ever come empty-handed, for the beleaguered authors won’t be in the mood to chatter without tea or coffee to entice them.

There was only one author tonight, hunched over the mahogany desk much too large for his small stature. His quill scratched at his manuscript with frustrated ferocity and, judging by his muttering, not much progress was being made. Dantes set the steaming tray beside a stack of papers and spoke with bemusement. “A reward for your efforts, Andersen.”

“Eh?” Andersen lifted his head. He pushed up his glasses with a finger. “Oh, it’s just you. Is it that time already?”

“Seven o’clock has come knocking, yes. I see that you are still struggling futilely against the weight of your draft.”

“So I am. So I am! Come to point and laugh, have you? The spirit of Hell has darkened my doorstep to mock my infinitesimal efforts, to cackle over how I’ve been squirming like a worm in my pathetic attempts to scale my deadline?”

Dantes shrugged the dramatics off and flicked his hand to summon his lighter. “If that is what you wish. I was thinking more of a coffee break.”

“Don’t smoke in here,” Andersen grumbled. He swiveled away from his manuscript and helped himself to his usual chipped cup. “I suppose your idea will do. Less noisy.”

It would be easier to form a cigarette from mana, but Dantes liked the physicality of a real one. Packaged goods were scarce in the Atlas Institute so he rolled his own from their tobacco stores. As he lit up, his eyes wandered over Andersen’s desk. “I see you’ve made progress,” he said.

“If you can call such a mess ‘progress,’ yes. I’ve made some.” Andersen rolled his eyes. “Listen, there is nothing worse than a reader. They’re among the greediest creatures known to man! Even if you deliver a well-crafted story to whet their appetite, they’ll stamp their feet like children and demand things to be adjusted to their liking. Or worse, they’ll demand more without any consideration for the author!”

“Heh. An author is a miserable thing, not unlike Sisyphus.”

“That is exactly what I am. A literary Sisyphus, breaking my back for a boulder that doesn’t care for my efforts!”

Dantes sighed, smoke flowing out on his breath. “Come, now. We both know you enjoy the ordeal.”

“Of course _you’d_ say that. Writing is the sort of craft the devil would come up with.”

“Indeed,” Dantes answered with a sly smile. “Why else would I regularly supply you with coffee?”

“Unbelievable. A confession straight from the serpent’s mouth.”

Complaining came as naturally to Andersen as water did to a brook. When they first talked, Dantes found the man a masochistic pessimist. His assessment still stood but his ears were better trained to hear and understand the meaning beneath the words. When one worked with authors, one had to learn their strange, roundabout ways of interacting with the world.

So Dantes considered, instead, the stacks of paper on and off the desk; the dark bags beneath Andersen’s eyes; the contained chaos of books and manuscripts that formed the study; how it’d only been a day since the Penglai singularity was resolved.

As if reading his mind, Andersen said, “Murasaki filled me in on the details of our Master’s latest escapade. But I haven’t gotten the story from your point of view.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Dantes confessed. “My compatibility with the singularity was too poor.”

“Is that so?” Disappointment colored Andersen’s voice. He frowned over his coffee. “Hm. It’s true that the difference between the realm of fiction and dreams is a fine line. In such an environment, you’d be subject to the author’s rules.”

“I suppose I would be. Are the events on the mountain the inspiration for your newest piece?”

“What makes you say that?” Andersen swiveled away from him. “And didn’t I tell you not to smoke in here?”

A button was pushed. _What_ the button was, Dantes was hard-pressed to define, but it would not be Andersen if the motivation was easy to discern. He held his cigarette between two slender, long fingers and removed it from his lips. “You don’t mind it,” he said. This was true. Andersen only protested for the sake of protesting. He never insisted on it after the first time.

“I do mind it,” Andersen snapped. “It lingers long after you’re gone, like some noxious perfume.”

Dantes bent over to draw Andersen’s gaze to him. He held those sea-blue eyes with the burning authority of his own and slowly said, “If that’s your true wish, I’ll put it out.”

The air between them burned. Neither of them were willing to back down, and so neither of them looked away. Smoke drifted from Dantes’ cigarette in faded wisps, faint as a morning mist. It occurred to Dantes just then that he never noticed how small Andersen was. The Caster’s attitude made him seem larger than he truly was, made Dantes forget how he had to stoop to meet his eyes or to help reach the too high shelves.

It was Andersen who spoke first. “Get out of my space. How am I supposed to enjoy my coffee with you breathing down on me?”

There was more spirit to this insult. Dantes grinned and exhaled smoke. He straightened up as Andersen coughed. “As you wish.”

“Unbelievable!”

True to his word, Dantes padded to a velvet armchair and eased into it. This study was truly a writer’s haven. With the combined skills of all the writer-type Casters, the room dripped with a style the rest of the Atlas Institute lacked. When his conversations ran long and the night stretched on, the study reminded him of the grotto he once called his base. Perhaps that was why he was so comfortable here, why he was content to watch Andersen sip his coffee and sort through his manuscripts.

“It’s the Little Mermaid 2.”

“Ah. I thought you despised bending to the whims of arrogant readers.”

“I do, almost more than anything else in this world. An author should be free to write whatever he pleases. Unfortunately, that is not the hand I’ve been dealt.”

“It seems a difficult task, for the Little Mermaid was complete on its own.”

“You understand, at least.” Andersen looked over his shoulder at Dantes. Dantes looked innocently back. “Only a hack beats a good idea into a bad one. And I’ve put the Little Mermaid through enough. To demand her undergo further trials? That’s a sadist’s twisted desire.”

“If the prospect of working on such a project fills you with such disgust, why don’t you refuse?”

Andersen looked back down at his work. “… tell me, Dantes. You’ve read my works.”

“I have.”

“What is the mermaid to you? A girl betrayed and broken by fate? A fool who should’ve known her place? Or a pure maiden who did the right thing in sacrificing herself?”

These rapid-fire questions were a welcome invitation. Dantes took a drag on his cigarette. “It would depend on the reader,” he said. “That is the nature of the mermaid, no? The sea takes on a blue hue because it reflects the sky. The mermaid is the same, only she reflects the heart.”

“A mirror, huh?” Andersen said. “Something about your answer pisses me off and makes me all the more curious.”

“Why?”

“What do you think? Because you aren’t telling me what your heart’s reflection is.”

Dantes smiled. “I’m only another irritating reader, Andersen. What does my heart matter to you?”

Andersen sipped his coffee. His silence wedged between them. “You aren’t that stupid. Were it not for our readers, we wouldn’t be in the forms we are now. The reader is everything to creatures like us.”

There was truth in what he said. Still, the words churned in Dantes’ stomach, bitter and hot, a familiar sensation fueled by his saint graph which whispered, _You’ll always be a slave to that man’s fiction, you cannot forgive him, you cannot forgive any of the monsters who’ve wronged you._ Anger bubbled up – whether it was true or not didn’t matter. Dantes was in control. He was the one who decided his emotions; not this body, not his spiritual core. The cigarette flew to his lips and when he breathed in, it was a little more sharply.

_Swallow the anger. Press down on it._

He waited, with the patience of a sailor who’d experienced many storms, and he felt the white-hot anger wash over him and crash. Dantes exhaled.

“If I’ve offended you, say so,” he said flatly.

“What do you expect from me? I’m an author. Nothing I say is straightforward.”

“It is not decent of you to provoke me in order to avoid a question.”

“Why are you surprised?” Andersen kept his head down. “Everyone knows what wretched company I am.”

“It is even more wretched of you to try and garner pity from someone you’ve insulted.”

That got Andersen to shoot straight up in his seat. “Pity! You think I want your pity?”

“What else am I to call your flagrant caterwauling?”

“You are a rare man who understands my taste in stories and coffee, but you are sorely lacking when it comes to the rest of me. You think I pace about, mewling like a miserable kitten in hopes of being scratched behind the ears? That I’m putting on an act to make others feel _sorry_ for me? You think I’m that sort of sellout, hackneyed performer—!”

“—I said what I said!” Dantes raised his voice over Andersen. He had to cut him off here. If he let him go on, there wouldn’t be a chance for God knows how long. “Is it so much to have you say what you mean, Caster? Everything with you, it must be a performance—”

“—oh, forgive me, for not making this performance entertaining—”

“—an allusion, I may tolerate, for I am no stranger to riddles. But you, you—”

“—I ought to have taken a tidier, prettier role that’d please the Count’s tastes—”

“—you say one thing while meaning another! And you dare condemn my frustration, my anger?”

Andersen made a violent gesture. “You speak as if you’re less of a pain in the ass. Watch your glass house.”

“Delightful. You’d turn the spotlight upon me so you may slink away in the shadows?”

“Hiding in the shadows is your shtick, not mine. And in any case, you avoid others like the plague.”

“Then what am I doing, standing before you, tolerating the filth pouring from your mouth?”

“Don’t play stupid! You know well I’m talking about your fear of opening up!”

Dantes crossed his arms. “Isn’t that what’s happening here? You’re leading us down another pointless argument because you’d rather spew vitriol than to make yourself vulnerable.”

Andersen’s mouth snapped shut. For a moment, they only stared at each other: Andersen, red-faced with exertion; Dantes, eyes aflame with a challenge. Then—

“I wasn’t trying to rile you up,” Andersen muttered. He cupped his coffee close to him. “You’re one of my readers. I was _saying_ that how you see the mermaid is more important than you think.”

There was an unspoken apology woven in there, made clear by the way Andersen hunched over his drink, how he stayed quiet rather than rambling on. This was a man setting down his pride in exchange for an olive branch. A crooked one, but an offering all the same.

Dantes leaned forward. “Who do you see when you look at me?”

“Edmond Dantes.”

“There is your problem,” Dantes said. “I may wear the name but I am not the man. I never was to begin with, for my legend – my existence for being – is little more than an excerpt from another author’s story. The Little Mermaid is a mirror, you say. What is there in my heart to reflect? This body and soul can only hate. A story of love cannot reconcile itself with that, much less reflect them.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“There is no reason for you to believe otherwise.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo, this creature of hatred you’ve conjured up, he is capable of only malice and destruction. That is what he is, is he not? He would see the Little Mermaid as a tale of fitting retribution for a girl’s vanity and naiveté, a mere natural turn of fate. But Edmond Dantes…”

“Andersen,” Dantes said softly, but the author did not stop.

“… he is the sort of man to call the tale an act of love. Edmond Dantes is willing to crawl through another realm to die, over and over again, to protect those he cares about. And Edmond Dantes is the sort to brew coffee for a nagging, pessimistic writer rather than set him ablaze for mouthing off to him.”

An inexplicable feeling clenched tight in Dantes’ chest. It did not burn like anger and instead stung in the way his scars often did when it rained. A deep, painful sensation that trickled down to his very nerves. He closed his eyes. “You should have said from the beginning that you want to make others happy with this new story of yours.”

“I didn’t say anything like tha—”

“Is it for me?”

There was a long silence.

Andersen burst into laughter, the sound cutting and sharp.

Dantes opened his eyes. The author had pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes, shoulders shaking. “Do you think,” he managed through a gasp, “that I’d be so stupid as to dedicate a story to someone like you? Look at me!”

“I am looking.” The pressure from Dantes’ hand ever-so-slightly bent the end of his cigarette.

“I’m as deformed a thing as you are. Everything about me – my heart, my body, my words – all of it is cursed.” Andersen’s smile stretched too wide. “Mermaid scales on my legs, to remind me of the torment I inflicted upon her. Burns on my arms, so I may always experience that girl’s final moments. And my form, yes, this body of mine will always be half a man’s. I will always be a child, for that’s what they wish. What sort of putrid, filthy human would be fool enough to accept a dedication from me?”

“Andersen.”

“Don’t make me laugh! Even you wouldn’t stoop that low. Love is not for a creature such as I, I’ve long accepted that!”

The feeling in Dantes’ chest was now a sharp burn. The soft whisper of a young woman – a will torn in a fit of despair – the feeling of another’s arms around him – all ghosted through his mind, realities and dreams all at once.

“Andersen.”

“Even if this story were for you, what use would it be? The more I think of it, the more I ought to let it rot—”

“ _Hans_ ,” he said, the name tinged with desperation.

It were as if he doused Andersen with cold water. The author froze, smile gone and swallowed by the tense restraint constricting his features. Those eyes were no longer a calm ocean’s but a drowning man’s. Dantes could not mistake such an expression. This was something he understood, something he could work with. He sucked in a quiet breath.

“I spoke nothing about love,” Dantes said, slow and quiet. He ashed his cigarette in a tray and stood up. Andersen shrunk back into his seat. “You must not put words in my mouth.”

“We were speaking in hypotheticals.” The author’s voice was much too flippant to be true. “What, is the topic forbidden to us now?”

At his full height, Dantes easily towered over Andersen. The differences between them could not be clearer. The lithe and powerful Avenger, the scrawny and small Caster. If he wished it, Dantes could easily break the other man. He was never aware of his power more than in this moment, with how Andersen kept his head down, too-small hands balled in his lap.

Gently, so as not to worsen his own pain, Dantes knelt before Andersen to better see his face. “What was it about the Penglai singularity that troubles you so? You have always enjoyed trashing yourself, but your words tonight carried unusual venom.”

“It shouldn’t trouble me. There’s your answer. I don’t even have memories of what happened.”

“I profess, you don’t seem to hold much guilt over cheating Kiara out of her dream story. You were much too merry and too willing to share the subject of your manuscript with me. With that considered, you must be concerned about the form you had taken in the mountains.”

Andersen raised his head. “What, do you want to play therapist? That isn’t your duty, Dantes, and you’ve your hands full with Ritsuka’s nightmares already.”

“I am not playing at anything,” Dantes answered calmly. “I am your friend and I wish to better understand you. Do you take me for the sort of man who’d squander his time on trifles?”

Some of Andersen’s old smile bubbled up. “So you say. But that inflatable tube you bandied around at the beach…”

“… I shall acknowledge that one exception if you will speak.”

“The Count drives a hard bargain. What is there to say? My situation will not change. Oh, there are Servants here who can transform their saint graphs with a snap of a finger. It seems all _they_ need is an obsession and it’ll come true, especially around the holidays. But spirits who’ve been stained by public perception – spirits such as Salieri, Napoleon, you and I – well.”

“We are not truly ourselves,” Dantes said, falling back into the easy rhythm of their discussions. Andersen nodded.

“We can’t exist without the public. It’s as easy as that. Therefore, we can’t modify ourselves as we please, for that power lies in forces beyond our control. I’ve a theory for why my form differed on that mountain. To put it simply: ‘I was not Hans Christian Andersen.’”

Dantes allowed the words to sink in. “Which means?”

“I didn’t have my memories. I had no awareness of who I was. I was only a writer without a name, and because of that I was freed from the shackles of my life. Fairy tales? My miserable failures? Whited out on my saint graph! That writer was a man who could live as he pleased, writing what he wished.” Andersen raised a hand, turned it to and fro in the light. His voice fell to a murmur. “He’d forgotten who he was and so he could be what I am not. That’s why… it’s useless to daydream about it.”

A spirit of vengeance was not summoned to be kind. In the shadows, Dantes’ saint graph never permitted him to forget. The white-hot rage when he realized who condemned him to Chateau d’If. The icy pull of the dark ocean waters. The sickening fury that clawed at his throat when he heard of Mercedes’ marriage, when he realized all his waiting and hoping was in vain. All these betrayals thrummed within his heart as if they were blood and on worse days, he found himself so shaken with anger that he had to escape to the darkness of his Master’s psyche, so as not to lash out at others.

Kindness was a liability. Kindness was something he lost long ago. But Dantes tugged off his gloves, exposing the corpse-pale skin beneath. His hand – cold, dead, rough – curled around Andersen’s, completely enveloping it. The author’s hand was soft, as an artisan’s should be, and glowed with a warmth Dantes lacked.

Andersen tensed. “I told you not to play with me.” The words fell heavy from him as if they cost him great effort.

“And I told you,” Dantes said, “I don’t have any interest in such stupid matters. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“Let go. If Shakespeare walks in here, he’ll never let us live it down.”

Dantes did not let go. “The Count of Monte Cristo is incapable of love, but I’ve knowledge of these matters. Let me say to you, Hans: write a story for yourself. Not for the public, not for others. Make it for your eyes only. Burn it afterwards, if you so like. But this form you desire must come from your pen, and your pen alone.”

“You think I haven’t considered that? That I haven’t tore my hair out over how to use my Noble Phantasm? I _know_ myself, Dantes, and I couldn’t give a rat’s shit about my story. There’s no one I despise more than myself!”

“Then the solution is simple,” Dantes said. “Your story will be about you and I. I, Edmond Dantes, will aid you in becoming your own muse.”


	2. a negotiation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collaboration is a tricky process, as Andersen and Dantes quickly learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wonderful portrait of andersen was done by the lovely [elisa](https://twitter.com/elusive_elisa) \- please, give her a follow! this chapter's a little heavy on introspection + historical trivia, i'm afraid, but it's a set up for the emotional stakes that'll be properly introduced next chapter. it'll pay off, i promise!!

Ritsuka’s dreams by now were as familiar as Dantes’ own memories. He knew how to spot the cracks in nightmares and how to trace the fractures to the origin, which often bit at the underbelly of his Master’s consciousness with barbed teeth. He knew when cleansing hellfire was needed and when a soothing touch would better heal. It was exhausting and monotonous work, he thought as he lit a cigarette, but it was worthwhile.

Gone were the dead that haunted this dream’s Shinjuku. Not even a smattering of ash spoke to their existence, much to Dantes’ pride. The skies were blue once more and the city streets, though empty, were bright and clean. Dantes leaned against the bike rack outside a convenience store and savored this moment of peace.

“Monte Cristo!”

And here came the Master. Ritsuka jogged over, remarkably bright-eyed for someone who’d escaped a nightmare. Such optimism comforted and worried Dantes, though he’d never put a voice to the thought.

“Master.” Dantes smiled. “You chose to linger? I cannot guarantee that this pleasant scene will last the night. You’ve a great deal of inner demons hungry for you.”

“But you’re here,” she answered. “You’ll take care of whatever pops up. Besides, I have to thank you.”

“We have done this song and dance many times.”

“Yes, because it’s the least you deserve.” Ritsuka put her hands on her hips. “No ands, ifs, or buts!”

Dantes held up his hands. “Very well, I concede. You’ve masterfully convinced me.”

This area of Ritsuka’s psyche was relatively stable. Were it not, he wouldn’t have permitted himself or his Master to linger. Dantes said nothing, then, as Ritsuka took the spot beside him, upwind of his smoke.

“It wasn’t too bad tonight,” Ritsuka said.

“Child’s play, as they say.”

“You aren’t tired?”

“An Avenger such as I never tires.”

“Huh. Something’s bothering you, though.”

Dantes looked at her in surprise. “Ludicrous. What makes you say so?”

“We-e-ell, by now you’d have launched into a speech about infirmity or something.”

“… ephemerality?”

“I don’t speak French, Avenger.”

“It’s English,” Dantes said rather stupidly. “In any case, I am not a walking caricature. My mood is ill-fitted for dramatics is all.”

Ritsuka snapped her fingers. “So you do have something on your mind!”

What was he to say to that? Dantes pressed his cigarette to his lips to buy himself some time. It was like Ritsuka to pick up on these little nuances in her Servants. That empathic talent was what made her the ideal Master and what would surely kill her. He’d seen glimpses of the damage, the countless fault lines crisscrossing her soul’s surface, the natural result of hosting a veritable army’s psyche. She needed not his own petty troubles strewn into the mix.

“It’s nothing of great importance,” Dantes said at last. He felt Ritsuka’s eyes on him, demanding more, and let out a weary sigh. “You could call it a thought experiment. A silly musing to pass the time with.”

“Well, I want to hear it.”

“If my Master insists. Even you are familiar with vampires, yes? We’ve a few among our ranks but this… imaginary vampire I speak of is the perfect personification of the myths. Garlic will ward them away, the sun shall cause them to combust, and so on.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dantes caught Ritsuka stifling a giggle behind her hand. He smiled. “This is the reality for our poor vampire, Master, it is quite the serious topic.”

“Yeah. I’m taking this seriously, really!”

“Good. Here is the heart of our problem. Vampires are unable to see their own reflection. Let us say our vampire was never human to begin with, that they,” Dantes snapped his fingers, “popped into existence as an unfortunate member of the undead. How would this vampire know what they look like?”

“That’s not a hard problem at all,” Ritsuka said. “They can just ask someone, can’t they?”

“But would that be the truth?”

“What do you mean?”

Dantes ashed his cigarette. Black flakes drifted off on the dream’s wind. “If I were asked to describe you, I would call you a naïve young woman, with hair as fiery as her personality. A bit on the short side, though her energy more than makes up for it. Ah, but pose the same question to Miss Kyrielight or Jack the Ripper or even Sherlock Holmes, and you will find their answers all similar but ultimately different.”

“So it’s how someone sees you, not…”

“Not the true you, correct. That is what puzzles me.”

Ritsuka frowned and her eyebrows knitted together in thought. “I guess I’d ask the vampire what they’re looking for, then.”

“Oh? Isn’t it obvious? They wish to see themselves, to understand their form.”

“Yeah, but do they want that because they’re curious or what? Like, if the vampire wants to know _exactly_ what they look like they can hire someone to paint them or even make a mask of their face. That’ll work well enough. But the vampire’s reason for looking isn’t just about the details. They probably think the knowledge will fix something.”

“Kuhahaha! I should’ve expected you to sympathize with them. How very like you, Master.”

“I’m completely serious, you jerk!” Ritsuka elbowed him in the ribs. “If the vampire’s got good friends and family, a good life, they wouldn’t be so bothered by their looks in the first place. They’d ask someone close to them and even if it’s not the absolute truth, it’s a good enough guess. They’d be alright with it, because the people important to them see them the way they _want_ to be seen. It was never about how the vampire really looked to begin with. It’s about if they’re happy. And _anyway_ ,” she added with a huff, “their issue’s only with mirrors, right? Why not just take a selfie?”

What a truly Ritsuka answer. Dantes rolled his cigarette between his fingers as he looked at her fondly. “I suppose you make a point,” he said. “The vampire should simply take a picture.”

Ritsuka stuck out her tongue. “See, you should tell me more about your problems. I can solve them all, easy peasy.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that…”

* * *

When Dantes entered the study, the first thing that came out of his mouth was: “We should visit your hometown.”

Andersen started. “It’s a miserable hole,” he shot back. “Why would you bother with such a place?”

“Every story has a beginning. It’s only sensible we revisit yours.”

From his own desk, Shakespeare cheerfully piped up, “Oh? Are you two going on a vacation? Or would it be a honeymoon?”

“Keep your greasy nose out of this, William!” Andersen threw a book at the playwright. Shakespeare ducked and chortled.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks. In any case, last I remembered, Copenhagen was quite the sophisticated city.”

“I wasn’t born in Copenhagen,” Andersen said and turned back to his papers. “Odense was my birthplace. And what a rotten place it was for a child to grow up in, much less a poet. I couldn’t wait to leave it. Mark my words, Dantes. There’s nothing for you in Odense.”

Dantes went to Andersen’s side to pick up his empty coffee cup. He lingered, so he could lower his voice. “The trip would not be for me, but for you.”

Andersen didn’t look up, his answer just as quiet. “All of Chaldea’s hunkered down. Goredolf isn’t going to give us leave to rayshift for something so trivial.”

“Rayshift? No, the realm of the unconscious falls under my domain. You need only sleep, and we will be away.”

The scratching of Andersen’s quill only accentuated the silence between them. “My dreams are a bore,” Andersen said at last. “Our Master’s dreams – now, those are worthy of a demon such as yourself.”

“As I said, it’s not about me—”

“And _I’m_ telling you, my whole life was a joke!”

Andersen slammed his quill into its inkwell so violently it all toppled down in an explosive fall. Ink blotted the manuscript, dripped off the table, and, worst of all, splattered all over Andersen. Curses burst from the Caster.

Shakespeare was looking, of _course_ the weasel of a man wanted to peek over at matters that weren’t his, and Dantes wasn’t in the mood to give him more of a show. If he tried to help, Andersen would chew him out. If he didn’t, the same would happen. With that in mind…

“Excuse me,” Dantes said. He seized Andersen by the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder. An indignant squeak cut short his wild ranting. Good. “I’ll return him shortly, Shakespeare.”

“Oh, that’s fine. Keep him for as long as you like.”

“Hey! Aren’t you forgetting to ask someone here?!”

Dantes didn’t bother to answer. He kept a firm grip on the wriggling Andersen as he took his leave, coolly ignoring the verbal abuse slung at him and the curious looks passing Servants gave. It was not until they reached the shadowy haven of his room that Dantes at last dumped his burden onto the bed.

“Are you finished, Andersen?” he asked. “I would like this to be a conversation, not a production.”

As Dantes predicted, the trip sucked most of the fight out of Andersen. The author sat up with comically great effort. He was no doubt exaggerating to show how unhappy he was. “If you were worried about causing a stir,” he muttered, “you shouldn’t have toted me around like a sack of potatoes.”

Dantes folded his arms over his chest. “I am not a man who lightly makes promises. What I say will come to pass, one way or another. It has been a week, and you’ve made no progress on the manuscript.”

“I’ve no material to work with.” Andersen mirrored him – arms crossed, a sour sneer curling his lips – but with his oversized lab coat he looked more like a sad parody. “Ink cannot flow when the well is dry.”

“You dare say this after I’ve made you my offer?”

“I rejected your offer because it’s useless. Everything I write is a result of my childhood – the good, the bad, all of it! Why I’d need a second pair of eyes peeping at it is beyond me.”

They stared each other down.

“Your clothes are dirty,” Dantes said. “You’d best change them.”

“In front of _you_?” Andersen snipped. “How forward of you, Monsieur Dantes.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

There were days when understanding came easy to Dantes, when he could hear what Andersen meant without straining his ears to listen past the violent language. The times their discussions moved smoothly as a waltz, when they shared a glance and read the silence simmering between them. He thought those days were growing ever more plentiful, that he was beginning to truly speak the author’s tongue.

This ordeal was proving him wrong.

Dantes turned on his heel and began to walk away. Even when he stopped at the doorway, he did not deign to look back. “Bite all you like at my hand,” he said. “I sincerely hope you come to your senses and realize I am your collaborator, not a petty thief.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

During his lifetime, Dantes collected many pieces of art. It was out of need to cement his disguise as the Count of Monte Cristo, but he also held an earnest affection towards the craft, for the magic of a simple canvas was not easily forgotten. Many times, in the long nights where even his strongest hashish could not bring the oblivion of sleep, he could gaze at the open fields of a Hobbema or the liveliness of a Murillo and imagine himself within the scenes depicted. He taught himself the difference between looking and seeing, of how to analyze and understand the ways passion was woven into each brushstroke.

Dantes examined Andersen, then, the way a curator would a painting. How a man presented himself to the world spoke to how he wished to be seen. The author layered himself from head to toe, leaving nothing exposed. He crossed his arms when he spoke and turned away when uncomfortable, as he was doing now. His clothes were unremarkable, but it was the choice of a patterned vest – of draping a stupidly oversized lab coat over his assemblage as though it were a cape – that spoke to a desire to be noticed, even if it clashed with everything else. But it was as Ritsuka said: _what_ did he want to be noticed for?

To call the Wandering Sea’s collection of books a ‘library’ did it disservice. The lower levels of the base looked closer to a reader’s palace, with its endless shelves and elegant stairs. A man could spend several lifetimes among these books and still find his work unfinished. Dantes had spent many hours here whittling away time, nose buried in works of literature or scientific treatises, but he was here now for a specific purpose.

_Odense, city, northern Funen island, Denmark, on the Odense River._

He traced the island with a gloved finger. Odense sat a little inland: a city simultaneously close to the sea and yet so far away from it. If a village boy wished to see the rest of Denmark, he’d have to pay to travel the gap between the islands.

Dantes flipped through the book’s pages. Squat houses with slanted roofs lined wet cobblestone paths, with trees squeezing in like apologetic strangers. It looked less like a city and more like a gathering of buildings herded together, the factories towering over them with their multitudes of smoking heads.

_A deep canal from Odense Harbour to Odense Fjord was built between 1796 and 1806 to facilitate the growth of Odense as a port city, radically increasing its level of trade and population…_

A city caught in its growth spurt, awkward and gangly, with no idea of what it truly wished to be. All it was aware of was that change was inevitable, that whatever happened to its sheltered people and huddled streets would ride upon the fickle wheels of fate. Andersen’s scornful dismissal floated to mind, dark as the smoke spewed by the rising factories. Dantes understood better now those poisonous words, even if he couldn’t empathize.

The grainy photograph on the next page seized Dantes’ attention. He stared.

Photography existed in their time, yet it somehow never occurred to Dantes there’d be pictures of their past lives. The sallowness of the face made him seem older than the man hiding away in Mt. Penglai, but it was Andersen, without a doubt. There was no mistaking the shape of that face or the familiar weariness creased in those eyes.

Stoic as the author’s expression was, unease threaded through him. It was the way his hands clutched themselves, how his legs pressed a little too close together. He did not look at the camera. The way he held his head high spoke to his pride but everything else betrayed his discomfort.

 _A photograph of Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. Taken on April 26, 1862,_ was the typed caption. Someone had written right below it in slanted, cramped Danish: _Ud af alle Hansens fotos måtte de gemme den grimmeste!_

Dantes brushed his fingers over the inked words. They had been scratched in with great violence.

Somewhere in this library was a copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_. A collection this grand would not neglect such a classic tale, not when it hoarded Shakespeare and Faulkner and the Mahabharata. Dantes cared not to read it. He already did so a long, long time ago, when he was something close to a man. In that past life, he was fortunate enough to hide from its all-consuming shadow by vanishing into obscurity. It was not so in his current incarnation. The fury packed into this errant footnote was something agonizingly similar to the weight burning in his chest when Dumas boasted of selling his tale.

On a sudden whim, Dantes skimmed the rest of the biography. More photographs – and Andersen was always looking away from the camera in them. Beneath each and every one was a vicious scrawl. _En grim ælling og en grim svane. Latterlig. Hvad er meningen med at vise disse?_

Lady Murasaki would no doubt work herself into a fit if she discovered someone had defaced one of her precious books. Or worse yet, she would be beside herself at the idea of her idol leaving the equivalent of an autograph.

Dantes shut the book with a resounding thud. He tucked it back into its place, squished between the meatier biographies of other authors. There was only so much one could learn from another’s assumptions.

* * *

Despite everything, Andersen was still in Dantes’ room. At some point, he gave in and changed his coffee-stained clothes to a collared shirt buttoned to the neck that was a size too big for him. What was most remarkable was the fact that he was curled up atop the comforters, _asleep_.

Servants weren’t humans. Sleep was unnecessary so long as there was a steady stream of mana. This, then, was a deliberate choice on Andersen’s part. Dantes stood over him, looking down, unsure what to make of this strange turn of events. He had expected Andersen to slink back to the study, where he’d drink himself into rowdy drunkenness, railing at the nagging presence that was Avenger. Not this quiet cessation – not the conscious choice to remain _in_ a room that was not his, belonging to a man who had, only a few hours earlier, spat disappointment at his feet.

There was a piece of paper set upon the pillow. Dantes picked it up.

 _I’m not dead, only sleeping_ , it read. On the back was a simple command. _Do whatever you want, just don’t wake me up._

“He’s made himself quite at home,” Dantes muttered and clicked his tongue. Heat gathered at his fingertips and, in a heartbeat, the note vanished in a puff of hellfire. “You always choose the wrong things to speak your mind on.”

Dantes sat down at the head of the bed. Even asleep, Andersen remained tense. His fingers curled into loose fists and his breathing was uneven. These were the tell-tale signs of an unpleasant dream. Ever-so-gently, Dantes brushed back Andersen’s hair, so he could press his palm flush against his forehead. The skin’s warmth was considerable against the cool, corpse-like temperature of Dantes’ body.

A story was just that: a story. No one knew this better than Dantes, the victim of a tale’s violence. Even if it possessed kernels of truth, it remained a fabrication that could quickly sour into poison.

“You have my thanks,” Dantes said. The shadows gathered around him and the acrid smell of smoke choked the room. He closed his eyes. Faintly, he heard the great, sorrowful tolling of a church bell.

And then he fell, deep into the depths of Andersen’s dreams.


	3. a mishap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dantes realizes things aren't going to go as smoothly as he expects.

_Let me tell you a story. There was once a duckling beset by the oddest of problems. It was and is still widely agreed upon that ducks quack. They do not howl, meow, crow, or make any other sort of noise, for to do so would be most improper for a waterfowl. But this duckling was quite wretched indeed, for he could only sing his words._

_“There must have been something in his yolk,” the old hen said. “This never happens to those who come good, hardy stock.”_

_“Have you heard him?” tittered the mallard. “What horrid sounds he makes! I can’t tell whether he’s trying to quack or shriek!”_

_“He thinks himself a songbird when he is the same as us,” said the duckling’s sister. She had hatched the day before her brother and considered herself very wise to the ways of the world. “I can sense the arrogance in him. I hope he suffers for his vanity.”_

_The poor duckling naturally heard what the barnyard had to say about him. Day and night, he would struggle to quack as a duck ought to, bruising his throat all purple and red, but to no avail. He could not change himself no matter how long and hard he cried, and so he would always remain misunderstood._

* * *

A great, invisible heaviness pressed upon Dantes. He could not see. For a frightful second his body recalled the crushing grip of the dark sea, of chains around his legs, a weighted promise to drag him down to the depths. Experience seized his panic and wrest it aside. These were not his nightmare’s waters. No – he was floating on the boundary of the waking world and the dreaming, his progress stopped by something or someone.

He sensed a presence. It was faint but warm, like sunlight filtered through the foliage. Dantes turned towards it.

“So you took me up on my offer, Count. Your curiosity was too great to resist, hmm? The author opens the door to his mind and the people come stampeding! Well, well, well. How do you find the miserable stage that is my soul?”

“I will be frank,” Dantes said. “Your childish attitude about this is beginning to wear thin on me. Let me in or keep me out, you cannot have both.”

“Hold your horses. Perhaps I want a prologue before I present to you the first act. Have you thought of that? Maybe I’d like to wallop you with a meaty amount of exposition, layered with cryptic foreshadowing! But I suppose I can’t strut about behind the curtain for the entire performance. Very well. I can toss you a morsel.”

It was as if a light switch were flipped on. Dantes found himself sitting in a small, sparse room. The heavy curtains were pulled shut over the only window and, though no candles were in sight, he could see as clear as day. Andersen sat opposite to him in a rocking chair several sizes too big for him, a hefty tome in his lap.

Dantes looked about him. The only furniture he saw was a plain bed and a chipped desk. “I’m surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“From a man of your… personality, I expected something a little more decorated.”

Andersen snorted. “I was decorated with all sorts of titles and honors after my career took off. Let me tell you this: they may be empty gestures, but they weigh heavier than an albatross.”

“This room looks closer to a prison than a study.”

“Ha! You’d know, wouldn’t you? Writing is a craft that’s akin to a prison sentence, if you ask me. Chained to your desk, chained to your editor, chained to your readers’ ceaseless demands and expectations, forced to scribble tale after tale out, least you starve penniless. Oh yes, this is a miserable place, much like the rest of my memories.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” Dantes responded calmly. “You are not a creature beyond love and hate like me, who exists only to strew violence. Even you must have fond memories to return to.”

“A few good apples in a rotten barrel doesn’t cover up the smell.” Andersen cracked open the book, which let out a burst of dust. He scrunched his nose, shook his head as he flipped through the worn pages. “You were pestering me about my childhood earlier today. That will be our first destination—”

“First?” Amusement colored Dantes’ voice. “I was under the impression you’d hate for me to paw all over your memories.”

“Go to hell. I need to make sure you don’t get the wrong idea about me. Do you know how many misunderstandings about me there are? Wild conjectures are the reason why I’m so hideously deformed! You can’t comprehend a book by only reading the excerpts. Anyone who thinks differently is a student trying to cram for a test the night before.” Andersen looked up. “In any case… you promised to help me write, didn’t you?”

A tremor of uncertainty lurked just beneath the bravado of the question. For all his bellyaching, there was an author’s desire to please. Andersen was offering his own life up for examination, a cruel trial Dantes knew all too well from his own experience with readers. Such a gesture couldn’t be ignored.

“I did, and I do not go back upon my promises,” Dantes said.

“Good, I thought so. Enough of this yammering, this prologue has gone on for too long! Were this a book, it’d have taken up well past the first few pages!”

“With no useful exposition, either, only the author’s scathing commentary towards himself. A truly useless, self-flagellating production.”

“Ha! You’re right to call me out. I’ll shut up now. Don’t snicker at me, I’m shutting up!”

As a theater curtain falls over the grand stage, so did the darkness. The leather-bound book emerged from the shadows in glowing splendor, motes of light hovering over its pages like a cloud of fireflies, illuminating their faces. In this small, intimate space, there was only Andersen, Dantes, and the story between them.

“‘And the boy went, still holding his cap in his hand,’” intoned Andersen, his voice as deep and resonant as a bell, “‘while the wind rippled through the waves of his yellow hair.’”

Beneath Dantes’ feet, the invisible ground trembled with the violent beginnings of an earthquake. He tensed but Andersen continued reading aloud.

“‘He went down the street and through an alley to the river, where his mother stood at her washing stool in the water, beating the heavy linen with a wooden beater.’”

The shaking grew into a great shudder and what had been solid gave way. There was the sensation of falling, of wind rushing up from below as if from a funnel, and brilliant light gleamed at them from an unfathomable distance below. Faster and faster Dantes plunged towards it with the unstoppable speed of a meteor – he remembered his companion and looked up, only to find he was gone.

“ _Merde_ ,” the Count eloquently said, and plunged deeper into the dream.

* * *

He emerged not falling down but swimming _up_. The waters weren’t dark – the depth wasn’t great. Sunlight broke across the surface above him and Dantes knew through years of experience it was not far away. With two powerful strokes, he breached the water and gulped in a greedy breath.

A shriek assaulted his ears. A wooden tub clattered upon the stony bank and a startled young girl scampered away into the woods. Dantes, treading water, blinked in surprise.

“Oh? Is that you, Dantes? I hardly recognize you.”

—that voice was familiar yet different in pitch. It was higher, younger. He turned towards it. Sure enough, there was Andersen, chuckling at him from behind a tree.

“You’ve had your fun.” Wait. That didn’t sound right. “Andersen, _what did you do_?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything,” came the petulant response. Andersen picked at the bark. “It was my _subconscious_ , you understand? My childhood was my fount of inspiration for themes of innocence and misery. It’s only logical that my mind would balk at the idea of letting an ‘adult’ into this realm.”

Dantes scrambled to land. It couldn’t be. Yet, as he gazed into the river, he couldn’t deny the reflection staring back at him. Dark hair, without a trace of white. Gray eyes, with pupils the shape they were supposed to be. His trembling hands bore the dark tan of a sailor. He looked exactly the way he did right before he’d fallen into Hell.

“Of course,” Andersen continued in the distance, “since your childhood isn’t a part of your legend, you’re as you were when— hey. Hey, hey, hey! Stay right where you are!”

The author scurried to another tree as Dantes approached. As if that’d help. “You didn’t say this would happen.” He spat out the words, low and furious.

“I didn’t know it’d happen until I laid eyes on you! The only part I had a hand in was dropping you into the river. That’s the extent of my mischief. What, it isn’t as if you were changed into my state!”

Chasing Andersen was useless. The wretched fool of a man would only duck from tree to tree and Dantes wasn’t in the mood to be led about like a dog after its own tail. He gripped a nearby branch and leaned forward with a sneer. “You of all people should understand why I cannot stand for this!”

“And I said—!”

“You two, over there!” A portly woman burst from the woods and stormed onto the bank, clapping her hands for attention. “Yes, you two! What d’you think you’re doing, romping about like you are! You scared my daughter half to death! What d’you have to say for yourselves?”

Dantes took his chance. “A thousand pardons, miss.” Swiftly, he made his way to Andersen and yanked him by the arm. The author hissed. “My brother and I got carried away playing.”

“Idling about so early in the day? Go on, get! I don’t want to see the likes of you around here!”

Much as Andersen wriggled, he couldn’t break free. There was satisfaction in that, at least, though his chest still burned hot with anger. Dantes hoisted his struggling load onto his shoulder and took off on what looked like the path to town.

“Your _brother_?” Andersen whined.

“I am in no mood to entertain you. Shut up.”

In dreams, there always ran the risk of transformation. A familiar face twisted into a heinous monster. A comforting home warped beyond recognition. But as an outsider, Dantes was free from such influences. He was the undefined between dreaming and wakefulness, the darkness behind one’s eyelids. He could not be shaped because he could mesh himself into the dream itself.

For as long as Dantes could remember, his body was wracked by the Avenger’s curse. The young boy called ‘Edmond’ died in Chateau d’If. There was no reviving him. That was why…

“—Dantes.”

“Think carefully on whether you want to speak whatever foul thought’s come to your miserable bog of a mind.”

“We’re going the wrong way.”

God. He wanted a cigarette. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Andersen pointed to the left. “—Odense is that way. Odense is your destination, isn’t it?”

The correction pulled Dantes from his simmering anger. The dirt path they were on, which was little more than a smear on the ground, was beginning to peter out. There’d been a fork earlier but, oddly enough, he couldn’t remember which direction he’d taken. He halted and looked in the direction Andersen pointed. There was only undergrowth and wild-leafed trees, all unusually green and bright with morning dew.

“The geography of this place is markedly different from the map,” Dantes said. He felt Andersen stiffen.

“You were looking me up?”

“I was under the impression you enjoyed being studied, given how you wrote two incredibly verbose autobiographies.” His fingers itched. With his free hand, Dantes patted his pockets. Much to his annoyance, there was nothing. “Is it not natural to research someone when you’re interested in them?”

He hadn’t, of course, even touched Andersen’s biographies, much less his memoirs. But there was no harm in letting the author squirm a bit and to taste some of his own medicine from time to time.

“Well,” Andersen said, and he sounded unusually reserved, “you’re right. As most dreams do, they steal material from reality and adjust it to fit their needs. This forest is larger than it was in life, for it made such a large impression on my young mind.”

“I see. Should I expect to see dryads and fairies dancing about?”

“Quit your smart mouth! You may as well put me down. I’m the dreamer, and you need me to guide you.”

“Is this mode of transportation not to your liking?”

Andersen kicked his feet against Dantes’ back. “What do you think?!”

“I think,” Dantes said with irritating calm, “that you should be given more time to cool down, ‘little brother.’”

“I don’t want to hear that title, not from you! I refuse to play this asinine role you’ve come up for me!”

“Then you’ll stay where you are.”

“Dantes, you good-for-nothing pissant!”

* * *

Only when Andersen quieted down did Dantes set him on his own two feet. Dream or no, he had no intention of walking into town with his petulant companion adorning his shoulder.

A Servant’s dreams, while similar to a human’s, possessed a few key differences. Ritsuka’s mind belonged to the world of the living and thus suffered greater fantasies. Those of the dead, on the other hand, were fundamentally rooted in memories. Details were exaggerated here and there, but they were loosely true to what the Heroic Spirit had experienced – barring any interference from their skills, of course.

Dantes glanced down at his hand. The sight of the weather-worn skin sent discomfort crawling down his spine. This was not the body he’d resigned himself to. From what Andersen implied, this form was only temporary. Yet he still felt as though he were wearing a stranger’s skin, was watching someone else move this body.

“Most men would be overjoyed to be young again,” Andersen said from up ahead. He didn’t even bother to look back.

Dantes dropped his hand. “Then you do not understand me as well as I thought.”

“Ha! Believing in me was your first mistake. You’ll draw the same conclusion once we’ve made the rounds of my memories. My issues aside, isn’t this how you were before the story seized hold of you? As you are now, you are ‘Edmond Dantes’ in his purest form.”

“A ‘lily’ version of myself,” Dantes said dryly. “Is that what you’re implying? It matters not. The man you speak of is dead and he ought to remain dead.”

“Not all of him is dead.”

They bickered about this before during one of their many drunken nights, but the statement stoked hot fire in Dantes’ throat this time.

“I will warn you once, and only once, Caster. This may not be my dream, but I am capable of transforming it into a nightmare.”

“That,” Andersen answered calmly, his back still turned to him, “is Avenger speaking. Back in the study, there was ‘Dantes.’ The longer you remain at Chaldea, the more of ‘Dantes’ returns.”

A strange electricity ran through Dantes’ hands, a buzzing that could only be settled by violence. _He’s saying you’ve gotten softer_ , a voice muttered to him from the darkest depths of his soul. _Prove him wrong. Throttle him, as he deserves. Burn him into nothing._

Dantes clenched his hands into fists with enough strength to feel his nails bite deep into the skin. He breathed in deeply through his nose and lengthened his stride to catch up with Andersen.

“It’s not simply a matter of ‘Dantes,’” he said. “It’s a matter of choice.”

Andersen finally looked up at him. There was no sign of his usual smirk or the smug gleam in his eyes. His mouth was pulled into a slight frown, as if he’d tasted something bitter.

“I’m sorry. We won’t stay for long.”

Despite himself, Dantes snorted. Andersen bristled.

“What?”

“That’s the most succinct I’ve ever heard you. You should try to do it more often.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a windbag. Almost all authors are. Why else would we write entire novels about our personal problems, huh? Laugh it off, go ahead!”

Gone was the fire, doused by another chuckle. The voice in the darkness quieted. Dantes matched his steps with Andersen and, for the first time, became aware of the birdsong trickling through the trees.

The path began to widen and traces of civilization – the deep grooves left by carts and horses, footprints of countless shoes – were at last visible across its dusty surface. All of it wound towards the battered city gates where masses of people flowed in and out, a thronging stream of life. Andersen tugged Dantes on the sleeve.

“On second thought, put me on your shoulders,” he said. “I’ll suffocate in there.”

“Struggle forth with your own two feet. Is that not what you’d say to our fellows?”

Andersen rolled his eyes. “Why the hell did I expect kindness from an Avenger?”

“Now, now, should you be in danger of falling victim to a clumsy ox, I’ll pluck you out. You have my word.”

How long has it been since Dantes walked the streets of a familiar city? Deep down, his traitorous heart sought not modern metropoles conquered by concrete giants, but the half-timbered rooftops of Marseilles where one could hear the thrum of the tides and the call of sailors. There’d been missions where the cities was nearly there – France in the 15th century, where he could trace the beginnings of what would be his home – but they were never _quite_ the same time. And he was not so sentimental as to force Chaldea’s staff to permit him to rayshift. No, in the end, Marseilles had to be abandoned alongside the young man he once was. Demons possessed no home.

But even if this was Denmark – even if this was not the calm Mediterranean climate he had grown up in – the buildings and people looked similar to what Dantes the sailor had encountered in another life. The thatched cottages, the distant tolling of church bells, the lowing of cattle and nervous nickering of horses, the bright earthen tones of the buildings – all these were enough to poison his heart with nostalgia.

“Welcome to Odense,” Andersen said. “You’ll get sick of it soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! i'm burning thru this fic at a surprising rate... thank you to everyone who's stuck around this far <3 i appreciate ur kind comments and ur enthusiasm for this rarepair!! the next few chapters will mix in historical aspects of both andersen & dantes' lives, so get ready for that!


	4. a distortion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: MILD DESCRIPTION OF EYE HORROR/GORE
> 
> andersen and dantes fall victim to unfortunate circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter for this update.
> 
> art for this chapter is by [tiff](https://twitter.com/PlushMayhem)!

_ At last, the duckling finally made up his mind. He had heard wondrous stories from a kindly poet about the King of Denmark’s menagerie, where questing beasts and nightingales and all manners of marvelous creatures were on display. “Surely that is where I belong,” he reasoned. “If I can make the King happy with this deformity of mine, I will have purpose in this world at last.” _

_ Packing was easy, for the duckling had naught but the feathers on his back. He climbed the hill overlooking his home and, for the first time in his life, his heart beat not with fear and shame but excitement. _

_ He was going somewhere he could sing! _

\---

They’d only been in Odense for five minutes when Andersen sat down on the street. “I’m tired,” he said.

In a dream, decorum could be sacrificed for curiosity. It wasn’t as if their actions would manifest as true consequences in the waking world. Still, for Andersen to throw himself down in the middle of a busy street, seemingly blind to the traffic swarming towards them – Dantes could not help feeling a prick of annoyance.

“You are asleep. How can you possibly be tired?” Dantes squatted down to get a better look at his companion. No paleness, no sweating, nothing. Only his usual fish-eyed gaze. “If you want me to carry you so badly, then you need only say it.”

“I don’t  _ need _ to be carried.” Andersen rubbed at his eyes with his palm. “Will you let me sit for a minute?”

Dantes looked around them. True to a dream, the crowd parted around them as a river would when it met a rock. No fuss was being made but there was no telling if Andersen’s psyche would create a scene. He rested a hand on his shoulder. “Not here. At least let us into a house.”

“Fine.”

Here was a little test: would his powers answer him though his form had changed? With Andersen in tow, Dantes went for the closest building – a squat home painted daffodil yellow – and pressed his hand over the door. Beneath his gloves, the threads of the dream hummed. A little focus on the concept of  _ open _ , a little tug, and the home’s interior swung into sketchy existence.

Andersen dragged himself to a poorly-manifested chair, looked it up and down, and collapsed onto it. “Ugh.”

Outside, the author seemed to have been pulling his usual dramatics. Now, it was looking to be more serious than Dantes thought. Something must have shown on his face, for Andersen snapped, “Having guests over gives me the nerves.”

Dantes crooked an eyebrow. “You? Nervous over attention? Perish the thought.”

“I’ll confess to being an audience’s prostitute, sure. What a common fate that is for authors, a truly miserable business, writing is… but you should throw me that scant bit of empathy you showed me last week! If I pried into your heart – don’t give me that look, I said  _ if! _ – you’d feel what I’m feeling right now.”

“I am not here to judge you, Andersen.”

Andersen leaned far, far back in his questionable chair. “Of course not,” he said. “You’re simply here to change the very core of who I am.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine yourself as your own muse? You have written your own life’s story not once, but twice.” Dantes crossed his arms. “And rather extensively, at that.”

Märchen Meines Lebens. The name borne by Andersen’s Noble Phantasm and by his autobiographies. They were books Dantes found little time to read, nor could he say he was enthused by the idea of them. Ten pages was all he could stomach before he shoved the fat hardbacks into their place on the shelf, thinking it was good that Andersen became a fairy tale writer instead of a scholar.

“So that’s what you think,” Andersen said.

“If I’m wrong, explain it to me. Concisely.”

“An author who infodumps on his readers is the worst sort. I’m not going to hand you the solutions, O King of the Cavern.”

“You aren’t listening to me either, Caster. At no point did I say I wanted to change you. What I seek is to alter the light you cast upon yourself.”

“Funny, hearing that from an Avenger. Hatred is imbued into your very existence, isn’t it? Hatred towards others, hatred towards the world, hatred towards yourself…”

“If that were all it took to be an Avenger,” Dantes said dryly, “then you would make a fine one, albeit short. But those closest to the ground are closest to Hell.”

To his pleasant surprise, Andersen burst into raucous laughter, his too-short legs thumping the chair’s footrest like frantic drumsticks. The little knot of irritation in Dantes’ chest undid itself and a smile slipped over his lips. Around them, the ill-defined house shimmered closer to reality.

“Well!” Andersen declared. “That’s the best thing you’ve said yet! Maybe you are growing on me, Edmond Dantes.”

“Don’t wear out my name,” Dantes said with a touch of bemusement. “With how loudly you guffawed, you’re clearly fit to resume guiding this poor demon.”

“Now, I didn’t say— wait. Do you hear that?”

A long silence, woven in with the muffled crowd outside. Dantes turned his head towards the door, his mind already going through the practiced motions of survival, ears pricked for even the faintest sound out of place, eyes surveying each and every shadow.

Death in this dream would be temporary but it remained an unpleasant setback best avoided. Pain and fear set each other off as fire did to gunpowder. He would rather not a nightmare emerge.

Andersen remained in the chair, fingers digging into the leather. He looked on the verge of speaking when Dantes heard it, fast and hard:

_ Thump-thump-thump _ .

He’d recognize the sound of armed men anywhere. There was always a certain rhythm they walked when in formation, a leather-beaten heartbeat that’d been so haunting in its echoes outside his cell in Chateau d’If. Dantes went to the windows and yanked the curtains shut, leaving only a crack he peered through.

Red and blue, topped off by the glistening horns of muskets, bobbed past his vision like a parade of heinous, colorful ghosts. Dantes’ thoughts seized in their path. What he saw before him couldn’t be. This was Denmark, kilometers away from France, yet he heard a commander bellow in distorted French to make himself all the louder.

“ _ Un, deux, un, deux! _ ”

_ Thump-thump-thump. _

He felt his sleeve tugged. Andersen at his elbow hissed, “I can’t see. Move over.”

“Why are there French soldiers here?” Dantes quietly demanded. He did not move. It didn’t matter because Andersen, determined to get an eyeful, wiggled into the space between him and the window. The author pressed his face to the glass and frowned.

“I see. So it’s taken this turn. Use your knowledge of basic history, Dantes. Why do you think they’re here? Denmark threw in its lot with Napoleon.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. What are they to  _ you _ ?”

At that exact moment, a fierce pounding exploded against the door. None of the rows of soldiers marching looked their way and, as far as Dantes saw, not one of them had broken away to investigate their little hiding spot. But dreams didn’t work according to logic; they worked according to emotions and memories.

Andersen grabbed his wrist. “Don’t open it.”

“I wasn’t about to. But you must explain to me—”

“Come away from the door.”

“—what happened in your childhood—”

“Come  _ here _ , I said!”

“—to summon the damn Grand Armée to your hometown—!”

Andersen yanked with surprising strength and his sheer determination dragged Dantes along with him to the back of the room. The pounding at the door remained a steady assault, with no voice attached to it. There was only the relentless beating that seemed to send a great trembling through the very beams of the house.

And had Andersen not been touching him, Dantes wouldn’t have felt how his grip shook.

Around them, the house began to remold itself in response to the dreamer. Fine modern leather peeled away into battered wood. The walls drew in closer the way a child would tug their blanket over their head. If Andersen noticed it, he made no remark. He looked straight ahead as they fled deeper into this small yet all-too vast stage. And still, the pounding continued.

“I warned you, Dantes. There’s nothing for you here,” Andersen muttered.

“Do not presume to speak my mind,” Dantes said. “I am here because you are here. That is reason enough for me.”

Another tremble wracked their surroundings. Andersen turned his head and looked at him—no, studied him with an intense gaze. They were walking side-by-side now, hands having shifted during their escape to tightly interlace. It hurt but Dantes could bear it.

“Keep those words for a pretty girl. I’ve got no clue what to do with heavy-handed compliments like that.”

“I do not unduly flatter. I spoke what was my truth. Now, will you answer my question, Andersen?”

“It’s a matter of show and tell, is it? If you demand clarity, I can’t refuse your appeal. But I thought you had read my miserable adaptation of my life?”

“Ah, as I suspected. It is not an autobiography at all but another one of your stories.”

The winding hallway carried them further and further away from the sounds of the soldiers, shrinking them into a constant and faint drumming against the ear. The sun’s warmth cooled fast from Dantes’ skin into a prickling chill. Andersen let go of his hand.

“Men of this era desire glory for their nations,” he said. “But Napoleon – he promised men the chance to advance and seize their fortunes. If you were a starving shoemaker with a wife and useless child, the Emperor must seem like an angel sent from above.”

“Then your father…?”

“Must I spell it out for you? What else was there for a peasant to do?”

There was more to it than that if it was capable of upheaving the entire dreamscape. Dantes waited for the rest of the tale. It didn’t come. Andersen shoved his hands into his pockets and came to a halt.

“Things aren’t right here,” he said. “I didn’t think showing you around would be such a pain.”

“I suspected an issue the moment I saw those soldiers,” Dantes answered. They left the realm of memories long ago and were now walking straight into fantasy. Such things weren’t meant to happen for the dead. Again, he yearned for a cigarette. “There are few paths open to us. The most straightforward option is to follow this dream to its very heart.”

“Which means…?”

“You truly don’t know? We must unearth the root of these distortions.”

Andersen made a dismissive gesture. “There’s no need to unearth anything. In fact, I’ll tell you straight out: my father died shortly after his service to the Emperor. I was eleven.”

“Even if that were the cause, acknowledging it does little.” Dantes spread out his arms to make a point of their unchanged situation. “It must be confronted and broken, as one does a stallion. Failing that, we’ll have to seek a different memory to escape into.”

“How obnoxious. I take it you’re raring to do the former.”

“No,” Dantes said bluntly. “I am here as an observer, not a meddler. I follow your path, Andersen.”

Andersen’s brow bunched together and he turned away, towards the direction they had run from. There remained that faint drumming of the soldier’s fists, persistent as heavy rain. Arrogance was the author’s natural state. But in this moment, he seemed uncertain – vulnerable, even. Dantes did not avert his eyes from the sight.

“Strange, how a story has the power to devour the author,” Andersen said. “I began recounting my childhood to prepare a palatable tale for you, yet it seems I’ve become a prop in my own play.”

“I’ve seen it happen many times with Ritsuka’s dreams. It is not an uncommon occurrence for those with regrets and fears.”

“And I’m positively brimming with both, aren’t I?”

Dantes could not lie. “You are a feast for any aspiring psychologist, yes.”

“Ugh, don’t mention psychology. It makes me think of  _ that _ woman. No, no, the last thing we need is for  _ her _ to show up!” Andersen shook his head fiercely. “Then we’ll leave. I promised you a short stay. Let’s make good on it. What do I need to do?”

“Close your eyes and think on where you’d like us to go. I will assist.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

As Andersen followed the instructions, Dantes mentally reached out to pluck at the dream’s threads. But what had been a quiet humming at the doorstep was now a violent buzz, as great as a hoard of insects. Things were changing – but not in accordance to the plan.

Control was still within his grasp. Ristuka’s nightmares and the torments of the Prison Tower steeled Dantes’ powers. This much was nothing! Dantes extended his hand and, for the briefest of moments, there were the faint traces of the mythologie’s flame peeling off his skin.

_ Be still _ , he thought, and touched the dream with suffocating fire. The threads shuddered with greater violence and the ground beneath their feet trembled.

“Hey, Dantes—”

“Don’t speak to me,” Dantes ground out through gritted teeth. “Focus on what you need to do.”

“No, I need you to listen to me, because the reason behind all these changes is—”

In the distance, a church bell tolled.

The wall across from them was splintered open by a massive bayonet, which thrust forth like a dragon’s shining horn. Blue filled the newly created hole and the slow fall of a curtain of flesh revealed it was a giant’s eye. Icy wind rushed forth on its breath.

Dantes’ body moved before he was aware of what he was doing. He hefted a large, broken board, took aim, and thrust it straight into the eye.

Blood and fluid burst out like water from a balloon, forcing Dantes to shield his face. An ear-rendering shriek shook the world.

Andersen simply stood there with an unreadable expression.

There was no time to ask for permission. Dantes hoisted Andersen into his arms and ran.

This was no longer a dream.

This was falling apart into a nightmare – fast.

They couldn’t go back, not with the giant blocking the path. Forward was their only option. If this hallway remained endless, there could be a glimmer of a chance. Should they run into a dead end, they’d have no choice but to stand and fight. Such thoughts swirled through Dantes’ head so quickly that he didn’t realize Andersen was struggling to get  _ out _ of his grip.

“Put me down, Dantes.”

“We need to put space between us and that monster, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Weren’t you the one talking about ‘getting to the heart of the dream’ and all that shit? That’s what I’m going to do! So put me down!”

“A dream this may be, but do you think I’m so inept I’d throw you to your wolves? I, the demon of Hell who treads the grounds of the subconscious?!”

Before them, the air burned with cold. A great crackling sounded from below and up shot the shining bayonet, breaching the floor with its jagged teeth. Out of instinct, Dantes shielded his companion with his body. Rubble rained down in sharp fragments. With some relief, he felt Andersen clutch at his shirt.

The ground beneath them gave way with a roar. Wind whistled past his ears as they fell. The last thing Dantes saw was a gigantic, gloved hand reaching for them.

Then, all was dark.


	5. a dream within a dream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dantes realizes andersen is lost. a familiar book comes to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late chapter! i'm juggling a lot of projects rn; hope that u guys enjoy this one

_The journey was long and hard for the duckling, for he had lived in the fair farmland all his life. He knew not of the ocean’s salty sting, nor of the biting thorns lined along the forest path, nor of the violence of a sweltering sun. Above all, the duckling was ignorant to the cruel whims of human hearts. All he knew of the world came from the lofty worlds of song and poetry._

_He could not hear, then, what the sailors meant beneath their words. And when the boat dropped anchor at the capitol with a great_ ker-clank! _the hungry men crowded the bewildered duckling. “There’s an issue with your fare,” the captain said._

_“Oh,” the duckling said. “I am very sorry. What is the matter?”_

_“You paid for your trip, aye, but there’s the small expense of your food we must account for.”_

_“But sirs, I have not a krone left.”_

_“That is a shame,” the captain said with a gleam in his eye. “Perhaps we should have you for dinner to work things out.”_

_It was at this moment a young sparrow squeezed her way in. She hopped in a way characteristic of the lame, for she had lost one of her legs. This did not deter her from putting a kind wing around the duckling. “My brother!” she said, “I have been looking for you all over. Come, Mother is waiting for us.”_

_“I’m sorry,” was as far as the duckling got before the sparrow hurried him away. Once they were far away from the ship, she at last let him go._

_“Well! At least you have the sense not to make a fuss.”_

_“Who are you? You are no sister of mine.”_

_“Of course not! You are a little stupid, aren’t you? It is a good thing our paths crossed. Someone like you wouldn’t survive in the king’s city… call me Jette, duckling. Yes, that name will do just fine. And you are…?”_

* * *

Time must have passed, for Dantes found himself standing in the room where the dream had begun. The furious pounding was gone, as was the violent snapping of broken floorboards. All was quiet, save for the quiet _tick-tock_ of the a new clock set upon the worn desk. He couldn’t remember how or when he arrived here. Looking down, he was met with the unwelcome sight of tanned skin. Despite what Andersen had said, his form remained altered.

—Andersen. Where was Andersen? By now the author would’ve shot some scathing quip. But the only trace left of him was the giant book, dull and dusty upon the rocking chair.

There was nowhere to hide in this room. Ice seeped into Dantes’ stomach.

“Andersen.” Pointless. What was calling out supposed to do? It wasn’t Andersen’s modus operandi to hide for dramatics. Dantes needed to mentally step back and reorganize his thoughts—to remember what he saw so he could better scale this dream’s logic—yet still he tried again. “Andersen!”

Only the clock answered with its relentless ticking.

Horrible as the thought was, he should have known this dream would inevitably devolve into a nightmare. His time at Chaldea softened had Dantes and had him forget for a few crucial moments he remained the King of the Cavern, a creature wreathed in vengeful flames that poisoned everything within reach. What, did he think he was capable of creating as an artist did, when his very spirit core was rooted in destruction? Transforming Andersen into a _muse_ , with these hands seared by hellfire?

No, he was getting ahead of himself. Dantes closed his eyes to focus. The dream still continued, which meant it was stable. That it was now a nightmare could be a benefit, for nightmares were the domain of the Count. And the fact that this room has remained untouched—

“I see,” Dantes muttered. “The Odense we visited wasn’t a true memory. A story, was it? I am standing upon the stage you set – behind the curtains, so to speak. That is the nature of this dream’s layer. But if that’s the case…”

“There still remains a tiny problem: you are the wrong edition.”

The ticking abruptly ceased.

Startling Dantes was no easy feat. His senses were at their peak in the cracks of the subconscious, yet he found himself surprised by the young girl’s voice. He turned and nearly bumped into the ragged copy of _The Little Mermaid_ floating inches before his face.

“… Nursery Rhyme?”

“The same, yet different,” the book answered. “Alice is not Alice here. No, no. An author dips his quill in memories, and from memories he shapes the character. So it is with me. The duckling, the fir tree, the tin soldier: they are Alice, for Alice is a story for others. That’s the reflection he keeps.”

Understanding dawned upon Dantes. “You represent his creativity, then. An author really must have a metaphor for everything. He has poor taste to borrow so freely from those around him, though. You are a practical carbon copy.”

Rhyme’s pages fluttered. “Not so! I am an original!”

“My sincerest apologies. Rhyme, as pleasant as it is to exchange words with you, I cannot delay. I must awaken Andersen, for a nightmare’s seeped into the story he shared with me. Yet I see this room remains untouched. Why is that?”

“Oh? Mr. Tiger needs the mermaid’s advice?”

Were he in a better mood, he would’ve delighted in bantering back and forth for a solution. But riddles were only tangles to trip over in this situation. Dantes’ impatience burned in his chest; it was a miracle he was remaining as calm as he was. Even if this Rhyme was an offshoot of Andersen’s psyche, Dantes couldn’t help treating her as a child. That helped somewhat with his restraint.

“Direly, yes,” Dantes said, “and I’d like it as soon as possible, and as clear as you can make it.”

“My, Alice thought it clear. You are his audience and muse. You don’t see it? You don’t get it? Mr. Tiger hunts well in jungle’s nighttime, but on the sunny plains he’s only a stunned kitten.”

It was not the boldness of the declaration but the manner in which she said it: matter-of-factly, as though this was simply the truth. Dantes was at a loss for words. Knowing he took too long in answering, he shook his head with renewed irritation.

“Our relationship is that of reader and writer. Nothing more and nothing less. You’ve exaggerated the details, Rhyme.”

“I only exaggerate metaphors,” she said with another haughty ruffle of her pages. “I am a story true, like the books of old. Not a post-modern work leading you willy-nilly! Shame on you for thinking so of me!”

“And _I_ am telling you that Andersen has long derided love for himself. He has said so himself to my face.”

“Hop hither and thither as you please, it shan’t change the ink upon my pages. The story twisted and smeared for he was afraid of what you’d read. But he cannot bear to part with what he believes to be a token of affection.”

“What are you saying?”

“Oh! What an awful man the Count of Monte Cristo is! He plucks hearts without thinking of the bearer’s agony! Did you not make him a promise true?”

A strange numbness washed over Dantes. So that was his misstep. He’d been too careless in his role as the reader and overstepped its boundaries. How petty and selfish his demand was— no, the very desire to gain greater understanding of a man who owed Dantes nothing was a foolish indulgence in itself. The state of this dream was his fault entirely.

“If it were love,” Dantes said, slow and careful, “then I would crush it out of mercy for him.”

Rhyme became very still. “Is that what you intend to do?”

“Am I the sort of man to spout falsehoods?”

“Then you have decided? It is a love-me-not?”

No hesitation was to be afforded. “Naturally.”

“… very well. A book is nothing without its reader. If that is what the Count wishes, it is what the Count shall have. Cruelty out of kindness shall be committed. Alice will lead you to her author – yes, y _ou_ are to be Alice in Wonderland this time, and I am to be the White Rabbit.”

Rhyme shut herself with a quick _snap!_ of her cover and bobbed towards the rocking chair. The leather book rose to meet her, opening up with a yawning creak of its spine. Dantes remembered how brightly it had shone earlier. Now, in the room’s candlelight, it looked little more than a beaten-up, water-stained, secondhand tome without a trace of its author’s magic.

“Open your ears,” Rhyme said, “and listen with your heart. The lazy author would rather remain dreaming than to awake. This is his natural state. Oh, but he’s fallen deep to escape himself; he hopes to drown so he may feel nothing at all. Seek him out, Mr. Tiger, by leaping into your dreams. Call to mind what you share, hold fast to the thread that appears, and follow it. When you reach him, rend the heart from his chest. One cannot be heartsick if one lacks a heart.”

Dantes reached out to gently touch the book’s cover with his fingertips. “You have my word,” he said. “I’ll rid him of this sickness that’s seized him.”

“Then have your memories hearken to your call.”

What did Dantes know about Andersen? That he always took his coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar and a bit of cream. That his boasts and cynicism were part of a performance, a cloak as much as the one clasped round Dantes’ neck. That, on the rare days where Dantes was in the mood to recount the travels of the _Pharaon_ , Andersen listened even if he pretended to be reading, that inevitably the author would always wind up sitting across from him with a rare light in his eyes.

The book warmed beneath his touch as if in answer. Swift did the darkness fall upon the room, only there was no comforting light. Dantes heard again the distant toll of a church bell and braced himself.

“Tread carefully, Mr. Tiger,” Rhyme spoke from the void, her voice fading fast, “least you fall too deep to awaken.”

The fall never came. Moonlight erased the darkness and with its cold rays drifted the tang of sea salt. Planks creaked and Dantes felt himself being rocked to-and-fro with a gentleness that punched him square in the chest.

He was aboard a ship.

It was not simply _any_ ship. This was a three-master, grand and beautiful as a childhood love. Dantes stumbled back and fought the urge to fling himself over the railing. He felt as though he were a diver yanked back to the surface with how his head spun. No! He would not subject himself to these memories again.

_Is this how you’re going to be?_ the darkness within his Saint Graph mocked. _A whelp terrified of the past? Turn tail and run now, then, for you’re as good as useless!_

No. Dantes forced himself to draw in a deep breath. He was the Count of Monte Cristo, more than Edmond Dantes. All of this he could bear and feed to the eternal pyre of his hatred and vengeance. Though cold sweat still chilled his skin, he looked about this new stage.

Merciful God above, no one else was upon its decks. And the longer he looked, the clearer it became that this was not the _Pharaon._ Parts of it were no doubt plucked from his memories but there were little details that revealed its nature as an imitation. This knowledge settled Dantes.

The port was a hazy creation, closer to a multitude of shifting images than a solid location. French and Danish architecture slid over one another, a strange combination the eye naturally rejected.

“I’m dreaming within a dream,” Dantes murmured. “How troubling this is.”

There was no point in remaining on the ship. As Dantes descended, more props faded into their respective places – sailors calling out to each other, common-folk strolling the streets, the cry of seagulls overhead. All these faceless shades he ignored.

Find the thread and follow it, Rhyme said. The connection here must be ‘travel.’ But where was he to start in this bizarre patchwork of a city? Dantes slipped his hands into his pockets and tilted his head back. The sky overhead was a painted blue, without a cloud to be seen.

Something furry brushed against his leg. A white cat with startlingly pink eyes gazed up at him, her tail flicking wide arcs. “Pussycat, pussycat, where have you gone? Here I am, here I am, I was here all along!”

“So you’ve come with me.”

“I am your White Rabbit, is that not what I said? Poor Mr. Tiger would wander forever and a day if I stayed away.”

Dantes knelt and hoisted Rhyme up by her scruff. She immediately slapped his nose with a firm paw, forcing him to hold her at an arm’s length. “If you’re to be my guide,” he said, “I want answers, not rhymes.”

“Monte Cristo,” Rhyme said, “you ask the impossible of little Alice. And since when have dreams ever made sense? You will never find what you seek if you’re determined to think.”

“I’m no stranger to the territory of dreams.”

“The dreams of others, yes. But what of your own?”

Dantes’ jaw tensed. “They’re only mental interference. It’s Andersen’s dream and memories I must search, not mine.”

“My, my. If the Count of Monte Cristo says so.”

How Rhyme managed to slip out of his grasp was a mystery. One moment she was dangling from his hand, and in the next she was floating above his shoulder, a great purr rumbling in her chest.

“I am quite hungry,” she said. “Please, won’t you find me some fish?”

White Rabbit? With the way she was acting, Rhyme was closer to a Cheshire Cat. But a direction was better than staying at these docks. Should Dantes linger too long by the sea, more unwanted things could surface. He ignored how Rhyme settled on his head and began walking.

Intention worked as well as knowledge here. The perfume of the sea gave way to the city’s stink. Wooden planks folded into paved roads, unrolling before his feet like a white carpet. Formless shapes stretched into colorful merchant stalls and the sounds of unintelligible business assailed Dantes from all sides.

Rhyme batted at his nose. “Mr. Tiger, there! Look how large those fish are!”

“Use your words, why don’t you?”

“I spoke clearly and concisely. Alice is above reproach.”

Dantes was beginning to understand how this Rhyme was chosen as an offshoot of Andersen’s personality.

They sat at a fountain with their catch – Rhyme happily nibbling her meal at Dantes’ feet, while Dantes withdrew into his own thoughts. There were traces of Odense in this city. He could see it by the thatched roofs and odd manners of dress that no urban Frenchman would be caught dead wearing. So long as he avoided familiar streets, he would find Andersen sooner or later.

And what was to be done once this dream was finished? Dantes hadn’t accounted for these turn of events. In his mind, the fulfillment of his promise meant Andersen could move on from yet another artistic rut. If he possessed a body of his liking, that’d be one less thing Dantes had to hear him complain about. The matter of feelings hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Distance would be reestablished. Dantes’ visits to the study would have to remain brief, for the sake of minimizing embarrassment between both of them. No, it would be far better to stay away from the study. Once this sordid affair was over there would be no good feelings left. Dantes would make sure of that.

He knew what had to be done. The ache in his chest was only the strain from delving into two psyches at once.

“ _Dove sei, amato bene. Vieni, l'alma a consolar..._ ”

Loud as the city was, the singer’s voice rang as clearly as though he were standing beside Dantes. The Avenger sat up.

“Rhyme, do you hear that?”

“Nya, I don’t.”

Dantes rose to his feet. He knew that voice. How many times had he been berated by it, how many times had he listened to it long into the night? He walked with urgency, ignoring Rhyme who yowled, “Wait! Wait for Alice!”

“ _Sono oppresso da' tormenti_ …”

What a terrible job the singer was making of the aria. When Dantes reached him, he would be sure to mock him for his poor Italian – a final joke before the killing blow was dealt.

At the crossroads, a proud theater came forth with shining steps and glowing columns. His heart leaped, certain it was the Opéra de Paris— no, it could not be, for the roof was too small, too humble to be the opulent theater’s. Faceless masses flowed by without stopping to look at the young boy standing in front of the golden arches. A ratty hat was set before him, miserably empty. He was dressed in clothes too small for his stature and too shabby to comfort.

It was, without a doubt, Andersen. Different, yet the same. The very sight of him arrested Dantes in his tracks.

Somehow, he drew the boy’s attention. Andersen turned his head and their eyes locked. With a sigh, he bent down and held up his poor hat.

“Captain, did my singing please you?”

This was only a memory. Nothing else. Yet to approach this Andersen took tremendous effort, for Dantes’ feet felt as if they were weighed down by lead. “I am only a sailor,” he said, subdued. “I never became a captain.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Would you spare a krone? My father is sick and starving.”

A knot grew in Dantes’ throat. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money. Little boy, where do you live? I’m practiced in medicine. If you take me to your father…”

Relief broke across Andersen’s face. “You’d help him, really? Thank you! We live right there, down the street.” He pointed at a building painted a blinding white. Dantes recognized it immediately.

It was his father’s apartment.


	6. a farewell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dantes realizes what he must do.

_In time, Jette and the duckling grew to be very good friends. Cities are full of people and animals of many great sizes, and it is always a great comfort to have company who can speak on your level. The duckling lived in a cramped little room too small for even him, but he practiced his singing each and every day diligently. It was what he must do, so that he would have the privilege of catching the king’s eye._

_“Have you ever seen the king’s menagerie?” the duckling asked Jette one day._

_“I have,” answered the sparrow. “It is nothing special.”_

_“What! But it is what all animals strive for!”_

_“Nonsense. I am an animal, but you don’t see me twittering and tweeting for the court’s pleasure.”_

_“Do you not recognize talent when you see it, Jette?”_

_“Watch your beak!” Jette puffed up. “I’ve seen the monkeys and their acrobatics; I’ve seen the giraffes and their contortions; I’ve seen birds who’re willing to risk their perfectly good legs by doing little jigs in crocodiles’ mouths. Yes, I suppose I can’t deny all those animals are very talented, but there is more to life than being paraded about.”_

_The duckling could not agree with his friend. Though she had suffered a hard life and hopped about on one leg, she still had family and friends who adored her sharp wit. What did the little duckling have?_

* * *

When Dantes had plunged into the dark waters surrounding Chateau d’If, he thought he could feel no worse chill. The despair of imminent drowning – the fear of losing it all here – the icy currents that stole the warmth from the very marrow of his bones. Had it not been for God’s hand, he would have perished in the maws of that cold, watery grave. No matter where he traveled, he found no sensation to match the horror of those moments.

He’d been wrong. The very sight of his father’s apartment robbed him of air. He felt as though his lungs were bound by great chains and it was only by the fortitude of his will that Dantes did not break. Something soft shoved itself against his cheek. Rhyme had landed on his shoulder.

“Life is but a dream. No need to be so stricken.”

“I will not hurt you,” Dantes said with great effort, “but I will not tolerate riddle-making of my pain.”

“I was speaking, not riddling.” Rhyme’s tail swished back and forth. The young Andersen before them didn’t seem bothered by their conversation. He simply stood there, turning his patchwork hat in his hands, a hopeful look in his eyes. “This is a thread fast unraveling, our first one of the night. Best to hold on to it tight.”

“Why does… Andersen not speak?”

“A piece follows the rules, an actor follows its script. A splinter of the heart, a piece of a reflection, as I am. That’s all he is.”

She was right. All of this was only one of many layers created to shield the dreamer. The materials it drew upon were raw and real, but the story was only that: a story. Dantes overcame worse. Threats upon his life, sleepless nights to prevent failure, the moments when the barrel of a gun looked painfully welcome. This was a story that would die within the confines of their shared consciousness – no one else could read it. Andersen would not do such a thing.

Dantes breathed in and steeled himself. “Little boy.”

How bright those eyes shone. “Yes, sir?”

“Take me to your home.”

“O-Of course! Please, right this way.” Little Andersen bowed deeply.

The stairs were as he remembered them, down to the washed-out steps. There was the crack that ran parallel to the banister. A few metres away was where Caderousse’s apartment would be and the thought of it temporarily darkened Dantes’ brow. It all looked exactly as it did, when Lady Fortune had still favored him.

“I live here, sir. I am very sorry, for our home is quite small.”

Andersen opened the front door. Dantes’ nails dug into the flesh of his palm.

In a dream, the mind is slow to awaken to wrongness. So when the wooden and sharp aroma of spruce rolled out the door in waves and he felt the crush of wet grass beneath his boots, Dantes noticed but didn’t register the oddity of a forest growing round a bed. The man tucked in was a stranger. Relief beat loud in his chest and he immediately felt guilty.

Andersen knelt and shook the clammy hand on the blankets. “Father, can you hear me?”

Dantes shut the door behind him. Traces of a house peeked from between the needles of the forest, though it was clear they were soon to be fully devoured. He’d heard men breathe like Andersen’s father, gasping and rattling and weak. It was the sound of a body on its final legs, no longer able to resist Death’s call.

“Father, I brought a man to help you.”

There was nothing Dantes could’ve done in real life. And there was little he could do in this tangled dream, for this was a story with its ending already told.

“I understand what he’s doing,” he muttered.

Rhyme, still pressed against his cheek, purred. “Who’s doing what?”

“Andersen’s heart is aware of my presence. That he’d layer his defenses with this particular tale…” Dantes’s jaw tensed. “It is a desperate attempt to keep me from advancing.”

“Very good! Mr. Tiger is a reader who’s able to read between the lines. A tragedy tastes more bitter when the pain is shared. Yes?”

Dantes did not answer as he plucked Rhyme up by the scruff of her neck. He set her on the ground and went to join Andersen.

The boy still held tightly to his father’s hand, waiting for any sign. This close, the gauntness of his cheeks and the sadness in his eyes were much too clear. He did not look Dantes’ way when he knelt beside him.

“He is very tired,” Andersen said. “I’m not sure if I can have him wake up.”

Dantes squeezed his bony shoulder. “Let him sleep. He seems to sorely need it.”

Andersen did not let go, nor did Dantes expect him to. To offer a prayer felt too final. What a strange doubt to have, when he knew the man was needed to die. For Andersen to become an author, this was a necessary sacrifice – much like how Dantes lost his years to the cold halls of Hell. Not even an editor’s hand could scribble out a happy past for them.

The grass dew soaked through his pants, dampening his knees. A winter’s chill perfumed the air, the promise of snow. The life around them would not last for much longer.

“Little boy,” Dantes said, “where is your kitchen?”

He pointed at a spot where the trees were intertwined into a strange, knotted gate. Whatever awaited beyond couldn’t be seen until the walker passed through. Sensing no danger, Dantes gave young Andersen one last squeeze on the shoulder and went.

The ground crunched beneath his boots with the characteristic wetness of snow. Not a trace of greenery could be seen in the bare trees that stood at attention by the road, stiff as the bars of a gate. Before him was only one path and it curved up towards a hill like a great white serpent. Dantes looked behind him. The knotted gate was gone. The only way to go was forward.

He called forth memories to stoke the hellfire within him. Villefort promising him justice. How Mercedes walked arm-in-arm with Fernand. The greedy shine of Caderousse’s eyes as he eyed his starving father’s money. Hotter and hotter his hate burned, till he felt nothing from the snow clinging to his ankles and the ice stinging his face. He squeezed his hand over his chest as if to demand more from his resentment; he knew there were more grudges to draw upon—

_“You’ve come again, Count?” Andersen drawled._

_“Is it so surprising?”_

_“Very much so, for I thought you’d scorn authors after what we’ve done to you.”_

_Dantes set the steaming teacups with practiced care. Hot or cold were sensations he could choose to turn off on a whim, much like his sense of pain. But when it came to small things like brewing tea, it was crucial to know the temperature. To feel how things were coming along._

_“That was the work of a wicked man,” Dantes said, “and I am not the sort to make a blanket judgment. You must know I am a learned patron of the arts.”_

_Andersen smiled and it was like the sun breaking into glitter upon the sea._ _“Naturally. How wouldn’t I know when you’re always pestering me?”_

—this wasn’t what he was looking for. Dantes’ fingers dug into his chest’s flesh. A foul creature like him didn’t draw strength from such softness, which was vulnerable like a rabbit’s belly. The gentle warmth it planted in him couldn’t sustain him through any form of hell. Yet the memory of the smile persisted. Brighter and brighter it shone, blotting out the rest of the memories, and with its light came a burning new emotion:

Loneliness.

He was familiar with this venomous torment, had gritted it between his teeth while he curled up, waiting to die in Chateau d’If, had poisoned himself with it after years of careful planning to ensure no one could come close to him. To be alone was his duty. To suffer in the dark was necessary for the Count of Monte Cristo to retain his powers.

Even if Andersen offered his hand, it would be better for Dantes to reject it. Once this dream was mended and the author’s body was properly edited, he would remember his place and withdraw.

Dantes didn’t know what he’d find atop the hill. Perhaps there would be a kitchen. Perhaps there’d simply be more snow, or perhaps the giant would make its thundering return. He was sure whatever he came across, it wouldn’t be a surprise to him. But what he saw as he came up the hill left him stunned.

His father spoke of his mother sometimes, on the days when the flowers bloomed sweetly with the scent of nostalgia. Dantes only knew excerpts of her: the sort of berries she liked to eat, the dances she loved. Everything else about her – her face, her hair, the sound of her voice – were lost to him, for God saw fit to take her shortly after Dantes’ birth.

How could the woman sitting before him, then, be Mother? Yet when she looked at him, a great urge to weep grew inside him.

“You are right, my heart,” she said. “It is all but a dream. But it is good to see you after all these years. My, how you’ve grown. Let me see your face.”

Dantes didn’t close the distance between them. “I am only here to bring soup for Andersen’s father,” he croaked.

The woman folded her hands in her lap. “Surely you can stay a little while.”

“The past is the past. I cannot lose myself to a fantasy – a lie.”

“My heart, can you not see? You already live this way. What you scorn is the very basis of your life.”

“I cannot stay,” Dantes whispered.

“True to your blood,” the dream said, and there was sad understanding in her eyes. “But whether you leave or stay will not change the outcome for Andersen’s father. Across all stories, his fate is writ in stone.”

“It is not about changing fate.”

His voice sounded brittle against the winter wind and when he exhaled, he felt a trembling inside him. This little scene atop the hill was not Andersen’s creation. The heart he spoke to was none other than his own. And it was his heart that looked at him with the face of a mother he never knew, a mother glimpsed only through the wistful looks of his father.

Dantes turned away. “Someone must be there for Andersen.”

Down, down the hill he went. Not once did he look back at the woman he dreamed to be his mother. The way back was easier for the snow had grown shallow enough for his heel to grind against the rock below. There were no signs of a kitchen in this frozen wilderness, nor did Dantes expect to find one. To return empty-handed felt like a crime but what was he to do?

When he reached the gate he saw them: wildflowers, their petals tinged pink, shivering in the cold, too frail to survive. Dantes turned around. Gone was the forest he walked through, with no hint of the hill he had earlier climbed. All had been consumed by white. He bent down, plucked the flowers, and passed through the threshold.

Rhyme was waiting by the door for him. “You’re late. Later than the White Rabbit.”

Dantes didn’t answer her. He doffed his hat, shook it free of snow, and hung it up. The apartment was now simply an apartment – dark and silent. It seemed the forest had vanished in its entirety.

“I spy with my little eye… a bouquet? What an odd stew that’ll make.”

“It’s what’s needed.”

“For who?”

At the center of the room, Andersen remained kneeling by the bed. The floorboards squeaked beneath Dantes’ steps as he joined him. There was no sign of the man that had concerned the young boy so. All there was for them were cold blankets folded up and smooth, untouched pillows.

“The ice maiden came for him.” Andersen’s hands were clasped in prayer, his head bowed in such a way that Dantes couldn’t see his face. “That’s what Father said before he died.”

“There was little you could have done.”

“But I failed him.”

“… explain yourself.”

“Mother sent me to the woods to ask the wise woman for help. Nothing else was working and we had no money for a doctor. She told me, ‘Run home, and if you do not see your father’s ghost, all will be well.’ So I ran and I ran and I ran…”

“And you saw him?”

Andersen shook his head. “But he died the next day, all the same.”

“The fault is not yours, then.”

“I must have missed him. The woods were so dark and I was running so fast. I must have mistook him for a deer or an owl. If I truly hadn’t seen him— if I had done everything right— it is too cruel. I missed him and I, I lost my chance to say goodbye.”

Dantes looked down at the empty bed, at the boy who buried his face against his clasped hands. Slowly, he rested his hand upon Andersen’s head. “You were there in his final moments, as a good son ought to be.” How difficult it was to let these words go. “I am certain he knew that before his soul departed.”

A sob wracked the boy’s body. Dantes did not leave his side, even as a storm lashed out within his chest. There was no mistaking it. This apartment was his old home, not Andersen’s. This was where his father had wasted away, confined to a bed, deprived of the sun and flowers he loved so much. Forever lost to Dantes, swallowed by a grave no one would ever remember.

This was not his father’s resting place. It could never be, but in this dream within a dream – at this nexus of grief where their fathers intersected – there was at last something to touch, to see, to pray over.

With the gentlest of care, Dantes set the wildflowers upon the bed. How stark their colors were against the marble-hue sheets. He bowed his head and prayed. And for a blissful moment, he believed in the dream.

* * *

In the darkness of his eyelids, Dantes saw his father’s worn hands tending to the flowers. He saw him turn and smile. It was springtime. The sun was setting.

He let the sun set.

* * *

“Hickory dickory dock, the cat went down the clock. Oh, how the clock struck! –it is time to wake up, Mr. Tiger!”

Dantes opened his eyes. Rhyme’s fuzzy face floated close to his, her feline lips curled into a grin.

“Congratulations are in order! Deeper into the rabbit hole we’ve plunged. What an intrepid reader you are.”

“With little help from you.”

“My! Even a knock-off like Alice can still cry!”

Dantes looked around them. They were no longer in the Marseilles apartment but stood once again in the streets of Copenhagen. Dusk dusted shades of purple and orange over the empty city. All was quiet, yet the stillness oddly set Dantes at ease.

“What time is this?” he asked.

Rhyme licked her paw. “You ask silly questions. Your time and the author’s time are all tangled up, like a big yarn ball. To tug it apart is a task too great for this little kitty, nya.”

Frustrating as her answer was, it made sense. There was a sense of déjà vu to the city, elements of ports long gone mixed into this bizarre new stage. Dantes looked down at his hands. The tan was beginning to fade. This was later in both their lives, then.

“Tangled though it may be,” Dantes said, “there is a pattern to the snarls. It’s as you told me, Rhyme. I must find the common threads.”

“Quite right. Now, shall we make our merry way? I am hungry once again and would very much like some milk, else I will starve!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“’Tis the way of all cats.”

Absentmindedly, Dantes slipped his hand into his pocket. He felt the smooth brush of flower petals and the gentle tickle of the florets. It was enough to give him pause. On his soft sigh, he let go the memory of that whitewashed apartment and went forward. Andersen still needed to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your patience! <3 the next few chapters will be late since i'm crunching several projects - it's nearing the new year, so that means juggling deadlines haha
> 
> a few notes:
> 
> 1) andersen's father died shortly after returning from his time in the army. his mother sending him out to the woods to consult the wise woman is an instance he writes about in his autobiography. the same with his father naming the ice maiden - he purportedly pointed at the frosted window and said, "she has come for me."
> 
> 2) for those unfamiliar with "the count of monte cristo," dantes' father dies of starvation while dantes was imprisoned in chateau d'if. when he returns after 14 years, he learns that a new tenant had moved into the apartment and that his father was buried somewhere unknown.
> 
> 3) jette is a reference to a real life friend andersen had. i wonder if anyone can find out which jette it is ;)


	7. a promise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a show gone wrong at last gives dantes what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for what might be construed as mild homophobia & internalized homophobia

_It was the duckling’s second year in the capital when the owl came knocking on his door. What an imposing visitor! A massive, feathery crown topped his wizened head and his eyes gleamed with the luster of polished gold. It was clear the owl was a great civil servant and the duckling quaked before the power of his presence._

_“My men told me you seek admittance into the king’s menagerie.” The owl’s voice rumbled deep from his chest._

_“Yes, sir,” the duckling stammered. “Since my birth, I’ve only been able to sing. I am useless at all else. Many have called me a freak of nature. They are perhaps correct. But if my pitiful voice can bring even a fraction of happiness to the king, then I shall consider my life one of purpose.”_

_The owl looked down on the duckling, stoic and unyielding in his judgment. He calmly turned away._

_“You have potential, little one,” said the owl, “and I am certain you will entertain the king. If you are steadfast in your determination, come to my nest tomorrow night for dinner. We shall speak of your education.”_

_Was the duckling dreaming? Could all his prayers and efforts have finally paid off? He felt delirious with joy and burst out, “Thank you, sir! I will prove myself; I promise you!”_

* * *

By the time Dantes and Rhyme reached Town Hall Square, Dantes’ clothes had transformed in the subtle, silent way things often did in dreams. Gone was the linen shirt, the pants woven from sail canvas. Rich silks clothed him in their soft grasp and a grand cape embroidered with violet flames fluttered behind him. Rhyme, who enjoyed the view from his shoulder, remained unchanged.

“What a change, just like Cinderella! I scarcely recognize mew.”

“The clothes make a man,” answered Dantes. “Therefore, I chose my disguise carefully for my return to Parisian society.”

As far as changes went, this was an improvement from the last. He understood the role provided to him by these garments, for the differences between Avenger and the Count were negligible. But this persona was constructed for the world of the living. What purpose did this stage have for dressing Dantes in such a fashion?

This layer of the dream was stabler than the last. There was a good amount of detail to it, from how the gaslights reflected off the wet cobblestone to the uniformity of Copenhagen’s slate roofs. Yet the colors were a mite too bold, the contrast between shadow and light too artificial to call them true. Dantes was walking through a Romanticist’s depiction of Denmark’s capital – not the city itself.

“Yes, yes, for we’re over and done with the sad beginning,” Rhyme meowed in answer. “An author’s dreams are more structured than you’d expect. Poor, poor Andersen. Even asleep, he works at making stories.”

“I appreciate a man of habits. If we follow what you say, then this is the second act of Andersen’s life.”

“Quite so.”

“And his heart has decided this is the appropriate time for the Count of Monte Cristo to make his entrance.”

“Oh, it needn’t be Monte Cristo,” said Rhyme. Her answer provoked Dantes into frowning.

“You remain as fickle as ever with your ‘help.’”

“A story explained and never told makes it a poor work. Ah! Someone is coming!”

Indeed, a lanky soldier was marching their way, his arms and legs swinging comically as though he were a nutcracker. He jerked to an abrupt stop in their path, pivoted on his heel to face them, and slapped a salute. “A message for the Count!” he boomed.

“Who are you?” Though he asked, Dantes still held out his hand. His question went unanswered, for the soldier slapped an envelope into his grasp and marched away.

The envelope was of thick paper, the sort you would find in a high-class hotel. The letter itself was folded into neat thirds, but when Dantes tilted it in the light, he could see the indents of previous drafts littering the letter’s back. Whoever wrote this message went through much agony in composing it.

“Hurry up!” Rhyme dug her claws into his shoulder. “I would like to read it!”

“I won’t humor you with such an attitude.”

“Don’t be a bore and open it already!”

With great reluctance, Dantes did.

 _Edmond,_ the letter began, and the name alone roused a violent urge to destroy it. Instead, he clenched at the letter tightly, crumpling it. _Perhaps it is unseemly for me to write to you after the trouble I have caused you. I realize now that I am not what you need and have every right to ask for. I feel there is something beggarly, something degrading, in this constant demand for pity, but…_

Here, the ink sputtered, the words blotted out by a stroke as sharp as a cut across the neck.

_What have I done, then? What is it in my character that you dislike? All I ask for is honesty from you. Let us meet in Tivoli and be on familiar terms. Let us put all this behind._

_—H.C.A._

In some far-off time, when Dantes still held hopes to become a captain, he had visited the island of Elba, carrying the cursed letter that would damn him to Hell. The Emperor himself had emerged to greet him, but the detail that had crystalized agonizingly clear during Dantes’ imprisonment was the hushed tension strung through the house. How the servants met his eyes, silent warnings reflected in their cold irises, a promise of sea monsters and worse should Dantes venture too far into forbidden territory. The workings of Elba were not for him – and neither were the letter’s contents.

With great restraint, he folded the letter into a square and tucked it into his pocket. Rhyme made an inquisitive sound. “Why,” she said, “what a peculiar thing to receive. To think the author would apologize to the story.”

“It was not for me.”

“But it was addressed to you. There is only one Edmond in this tale.”

“The Andersen we’re looking for did not write this,” Dantes said, slow and enunciated. “You said I must make connections to traverse this dream. This connection – it is entirely Andersen’s. Not mine.”

“You are wising up, Mr. Tiger! Tivoli, the letter said. Have you ever been?”

“Need I have? The dream will lead me to it.”

“Tis a charming place, the gardens. Man sculpted clay, and with clay created brick, and with brick laid the base for pleasures untold. That is the Tivoli Gardens.”

“You speak too highly of it. It is only another pleasure garden.”

“My, my! You are determined not to be impressed by anything, are you?”

Cats weren’t supposed to be this noisy. Dantes flicked her nose to shut her up which, to his silent satisfaction, made her yelp. She fled in a puff of smoke.

In his travels across the world, he’d seen all manners of amusements. The lush gardens of paradise shielded by cool Persian stone. China’s park-lands where white harts darted over ponds of shimmering carp. The sham ruins of Paris’ own _Parc de Bagatelle_ , which Haydee so liked to hide within. Idly, Dantes wondered whether he’d ever see the true Tivoli, or if the gardens would prove to be another melded memory. When Andersen awoke, maybe—

—no. He was letting his thoughts wander too far. His resolve couldn’t be so easily shaken. Once this was all behind them, there would be a better companion for Andersen to travel with.

Tivoli’s gates arched in a bow of carmine, a vibrant streak against the blue sky. A man was leaning against the entrance and he wore a remarkably large scarf that threatened to engulf his slender face. Every now and then, he turned over the watch in his hand to check the time and frown. Dantes recognized the nervous habit as well as his own.

“I apologize if I’ve made you wait, Andersen. Your time is precious.”

And Andersen — yes, it was without a doubt his friend, even if his eyes were too bright and clear of despair – he palmed the watch to hurriedly press Dantes’ gloved hand, all eagerness and no bite. It felt strange. “No, you’ve come right on time, Count. You’ve been keeping well?”

“Better, now that I am in your company.”

It was the right thing to say. Andersen smiled and it struck Dantes how desperate it seemed. “I am glad to hear it. I heard they’ve installed a new amusement. The _Pantomimeteateret_ , they call it.”

“Ah, Legrand’s Pierrot enjoys popularity here?”

“His Pierrot is too French for Danish tastes. Too…” Andersen trailed off. He seemed hesitant. “… passionate and unseemly. That’s not the _Pjerrot_ we know.”

“I see.” Against his better judgment, Dantes added, “I’m curious to see a Danish take on _c_ _ommedia dell'arte_. You’ll watch a show with me, won’t you?”

Andersen froze as a rabbit would before a wolf. The fear was there for only a second, but it shone as bright as ice under the sun. He tugged on his glove, then tugged on the other one. “It’s not like you to take an interest.”

“You know me. I say what I mean.”

“Yes, I know, it’s just…”

The answer didn’t come. Dantes crooked an eyebrow. “You invited me here to reconcile. Come, take my arm. Lead me to the theater and let’s be friends again.”

Andersen hooked their arms together. This close, Dantes could feel the leanness of his friend’s figure. Long ago, when he first met his servant Ali, he helped the man back to proper lodgings. Ali had been so thin from maltreatment that he weighed hardly more than a sack of bird’s bones. Though Andersen’s face was flushed by the cold air, that same lightness emanated from his hold.

Tivoli unfurled as a magnificent flower of paradise. Here dangled the colored gas lamps, bright as the ripest of fruits. Buildings modeled after Chinese architecture fenced in the park with their crowned roofs, and the sweet sound of flutes laced the nippy winter air. Dantes held fast to Andersen. As they wandered deeper into the garden, Andersen at last began to talk again.

“Don’t get your hopes up too high. Chances are, they’ll put on _Harlequin and Columbine_ yet again.”

“It is a time-tested classic. Classics are reliable tools for entertainers, are they not?”

“Ha! If all entertainers thought that way, we’d never have any new stories. I suppose it depends on the _type_ of entertainer you are. An actor enslaved to the masses, for example, will indeed treat the classics as the keys to his trade. But an actor who seeks to push the boundaries, to expand the human consciousness… yes, like _Pagliacci_ , for example. What is so funny?”

Had he laughed? To his surprise, Dantes found he was smiling. He shook his head. “It is like you to enjoy an unhappy tale.”

“I’m not so one-dimensional in my tastes! I enjoy _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ as well as _Hamlet_!”

“Ah, but _Hamlet_ is where your affections lie. It’s a play best suited for wretched creatures like us.”

“The absolute gall you have to assume… ‘us?’”

“A mere slip of the tongue. I’ve only heard of _Pagliacci_ in passing; please, I’d like to hear your interpretation.”

The _Pantomimeteateret_ seemed more a painting than a theater. The mechanical curtain fanned out in a marvelous peacock’s tail, each feather a dazzling shade of green and gold. The jade-colored facades seemed to glow beneath the gas lights and the dragons upon the roof winked with their pearl eyes at passers-by.

A sizable crowd gathered in neat green benches, yet a pair of seats at the front remained untouched. Dantes and Andersen’s passing caused a few heads to turn their way. The hairs on the back of Dantes’ neck rose. The people’s faces were as smooth as a shiny pebble, with flesh stretched over where their eyes should’ve been. But their lips remained, red and full as mushroom caps.

Dantes was here to tear down the walls of the psyche. Such a duty couldn’t be ignored. Rather than focusing on the nightmares, he looked to his companion. Illuminated by the theater’s lights, Andersen seemed to glow. Even as the peacock’s feathers parted to begin the show, Dantes’ attention remained on Andersen’s clean jawline and sea-blue eyes.’

Perhaps there were subconscious clues embedded in the performance— oh, what did it matter? He’d seen every performance and then some as the Count. To crack this layer, Andersen should be his focus.

When Pjerrot bemoaned his lamentable lot, the whispers began. They darted between the quick silences left by the actors and reached Dantes’ ears with startling clarity.

_The Count and the author came._

_He is a funny one, isn’t he?_

_So, the Count has forgiven him for his indiscretions?_

_It’s always the same when it comes to Andersen._

There was no doubt who was responsible. The faceless people’s mouths gleamed from the saliva they dribbled out. They whispered behind him, they whispered beside him – there was not a spot in the room free of tongues wagging with gossip and rumors and glee.

_The man travels and thinks himself a genius. Have you read his letters?_

_Letters? Goodness no, what do they say?_

_I can’t say the contents aloud – it’s so scandalous! – but Andersen sent poems of a_ very _dubious nature_ _to the Count._

_Here! I’ve one of the letters, pass it around…_

_Imagine that. To think the Count would be so easily led by the whims of an oversized child._

Next to him, Andersen sat very still. Not once did his eyes leave the stage. His fingers scraped under the bench, over and over in quick, rapid motions. Louder and louder the voices grew.

_He writes too much! Does he think himself above judgment?_

_He commits himself to these ugly, flagrant displays of affection. Hear what he’s written: “I kiss you as my bride!” And the Count tolerates this?_

_Yes, Andersen possesses a deplorable productivity. He thinks if he floods the Count with gushing letters and half-baked stories, he will earn his respect._

_Ha! He doesn’t even want that much. The fool will ruin himself for a mere look._

_What a disgrace._

_See how he squanders his talent._

_A simpering freak._

Dantes put his hand on Andersen’s. Despite his gloves, he could feel the chill emanating from the author’s skin. Andersen startled but did not pull away.

“We are leaving,” Dantes said. “It’s cold. Let me lend you my cape.”

“Count—”

“Dantes. Call me Dantes. We are friends, are we not? Now stand, Andersen. The air here is poor. We’ll find somewhere better.”

The faceless people clamored. They flashed their small, serrated white teeth and lashed out with scarlet tongues. Andersen grew paler and paler by the second but Dantes did not let any of it faze him. He threw his cape was over Andersen’s shoulders and he stole him away, careful to shield him from flying spittle. They did not stop walking until the peacock theater was gone, until the voices faded into silence, until there was no one else around to mar the lights shining down on them. It was just the two of them – Andersen and Dantes.

* * *

They walked until the paved paths of Tivoli petered into wild weeds. Civilization’s hold here was loose, marked only by the multicolored gasp lamps lighting the way. Without the crowds, the music of the night swelled. The rich baritone ring of an owl, the babbling trill of the nightjar, the distant thrums of a tide breaking upon rocks. Not once did Dantes let go of Andersen’s hand.

“This isn’t how the story goes,” Andersen said.

“If I’ve deviated from your script, it’s because you’ve chosen a poor role for me. I have no interest in upholding your fantasies. I’m here to destroy them to reach you.”

“Then you’re here to kill me.”

“When did I ever say that? That’s your desire, Hans. Not mine.”

Andersen turned his head away to smile. Dantes still saw from the corner of his eyes.

“He wasn’t anything as grand as a Count,” Andersen said. “But you have the same… distance.”

“You speak of your letter’s recipient.”

“I wrote many letters to many men and women. Still, all that I wrote, I wrote for him. Even when I was presented with a glimpse of his true nature, I dedicated nearly all my stories to him and had him read every single one.”

Before Chateau d’If, Dantes knew the warmth of passion. It was in Mercedes’ sunburnt arms and in the way she called his name. He had spent many days at sea dreaming of the things he’d bring back to woo her. All that was foreign to him now, mere sea foam of the past. But he remembered enough to give Andersen’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“The man you speak of was of high standing, no?”

“Very. His family whispered into the ear of the king.”

“Then he and I are fundamentally different.”

They stopped before a still lake. Its black surface reflected the night sky with the uncanny accuracy of a photograph, with not a ripple marring the sight. Dantes looked up towards the pale moon.

“He distanced himself because he feared for his position.” Dantes recalled the whispers, their poisonous words lacing the air like spores. “I distance myself because I am a monster. All who touch me will be poisoned by the hellish flames in my soul. Damned, as I am.”

Andersen clutched his cape closer. “I must already be damned then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am touching you. Yet I feel no pain.”

“Some poisons are slow and subtle in their work. That is why I’m here – that is why I’ve come so far to find you.”

“… I wish I could do what you do.”

“No. Take me as a warning and nothing else. I am not an existence to long for.”

Somewhere deep in the woods, a nightjar cried. Andersen dipped his head in thought. Dantes often saw him do this at his Chaldea study, especially when there was a difficult manuscript to wrestle. Some habits hadn’t changed.

“You were too kind to me,” Andersen said at last. “No, even if you had treated me with great cruelty, these disgusting feelings of mine still would’ve grown. I—”

It was easy to grab Andersen by the shoulders and turn him to face Dantes. He was as light as a bird and offered no resistance. The author didn’t even flinch at the sudden manhandling. He simply locked his eyes on his, calm and resigned. Dantes leaned in. He came close enough to hear him breathe.

“You have a propensity for dramatics when it comes to your faults. That is your personality, and I will not try to change you. But mark my words and mark them well. Do not call your love ‘disgusting.’ You are a serial procrastinator, a pompous little man who can’t read the room, someone who loves to stir the pot. All these faults, you may rail at. Attack them with whatever florid metaphor you fancy. But not your love. Never your love.”

One by one, the gas lamps switched off. The veil of darkness was being pulled over the world one final time. Dantes felt a light tremor run through Andersen, gone as quickly as it came. Very, very slowly, Andersen set his hands on Dantes’ wrists.

“My love does no one good. Isn’t that why you’re looking to destroy it?”

“I want to put it to rest for both our sakes,” answered Dantes. “In honor of our friendship and for your future, so you may wait and hope for a better man.”

Andersen’s eyes fluttered shut. Half the lights were off. Soon, this dream layer would end. Yet they remained standing together, hands heavy and warm on each other, comforting as a winter hearth.

“You may as well tell me to believe in Santa Claus. Still, if I had to choose someone to kill my heart, I’d like it to be you.”

“I am a man of my word, Hans. You have nothing to fear.”

Dantes did not know why he let Andersen take his hands, or why he allowed him to place a gentle kiss upon each palm. The tips of his ears burned. There remained but a pair of lights to illuminate the woods, and in the glow of the last lamps, Hans Christian Andersen shone.

“Make me forget all this,” Andersen murmured.

“I promise. I will set things right.”

The last lamps snuffed out, and with them went the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're nearly at the end! the next chapter will be the final one, followed by an epilogue :^) expect that to come out within 1-2 weeks. thanks for coming on this wild ride everyone.


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